


most ardently

by onemilliongoldstars



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Historical, but suspend your disbelief slightly i'm not a historian, period au, soft and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9314039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemilliongoldstars/pseuds/onemilliongoldstars
Summary: Clarke Griffin has been forced to abandon her name and her family. She is desperately hiding in her new role as lady's maid to Lady Lexa, fumbling through her duties and hoping to become invisible, when she realises that her heiress mistress is caught firmly under the thumb of her overbearing uncle. As Lexa suffocates under the expectations of her remaining family, she and Clarke slowly realise that they may be each other's safe haven.or: Clarke is hiding a secret while struggling to seem like an experienced lady's maid for Lexa, who is painfully glad for a friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! A period au! I love period aus, especially when they're soft and sweet but we don't seem to have many in the clexa fandom! I hope you all enjoy, I'm hoping to post every week or bi-weekly!

“You're going to be a terrible lady’s maid.”

Octavia’s voice echoes over the tiles of the kitchen from behind her, but Clarke is too busy balancing the heavy tray in her hands. The china clinks softly under her trembling grip, evidence of her inexperience, but she grits her teeth and clenches her jaw so tightly that it hurts even as her arms shudder under the unusual weight.

“Here, let me.” Octavia scoops the tray from her hands just as her arms begin to fail her and dumps it on the table with a clatter of silver and crockery. The delicate rose patterned cup shivers under her rough treatment, but Octavia doesn't spare it a glance. Instead she turns her attention back to where Clarke is running her fingers over the skirt of her dress, trying to iron out any wrinkles and hide her fear. It's borrowed, dark and patched in places, a little too small so that her ankles and dark stockings show, and despite the pristine white apron over it, Clarke feels almost bare in the scratchy, foreign fabric.

“Clarke, calm down.” Octavia's fingers on her arm are reassuring and grounding and she centres herself around the feeling, letting out a soft sigh.

“I'm sorry,” Her voice is quiet but steady.

“It's alright.” Octavia’s fingers tighten and Clarke can see the worry in her eyes when she continues, cautiously, “Are you sure you want to do this? There's no obligation-”

“Octavia, please.” She steps from the girl’s grasp, which feels abruptly poisonous. “I am well.”

“What’s going on?” Raven’s voice makes her cringe and her eyes swing to the door to see the stable girl wiping sweat from her forehead.

“I'm telling La– _Clarke_...” she glances back at the blonde guiltily at the slip of the tongue, “...that she doesn't have to do this.”

“Octavia, with all due respect...” She folds her hands behind her back and straightens her spine. “I cannot continue to accept your generosity; you barely know me. Your brother should not have to suffer my presence in his home without payment. I must earn my living.”

“You know you're welcome to stay with us freely,” Octavia insists, “and I still think someone with your… background shouldn't be sleeping on a pallet.”

“Thank you,” she allows a small, graceful smile, “but I will not take charity; I can do this as well as anyone else. I spent my life being waited on–something must have stuck with me.”

“Perhaps…” Octavia sounds deeply sceptical, and she glances back at Raven for support, but the stable girl only shrugs, crossing her arms.

“If the princess wants to make her own way, I think it's a good idea. See how the other side live.” There's a deep slice of bitterness to her voice, like a sliver of ginger caught in her throat, and Clarke sniffs.

“I was not a princess, I was… to be a countess.”

“Now you're just like the rest of us,” Raven snaps, leaning against the doorframe to eye her, “so you'd better start acting like it.”

“Raven!” Octavia scolds, frowning at the girl.

“What?!”

“Be kind! She's lost her family-”

The kitchen door creaks as it’s pressed open, and Clarke turns hurriedly with the others, petticoats brushing against her ankles. The housemistress is a foreboding figure in the doorway, tall and wiry with old age, her skin sucked close to her cheeks and sallow in colour. Hair slipping from dark brown to silver is scraped back so harshly that her head looks slightly odd and misshapen, and when she fixes piercing eyes on them all, Clarke folds her hands uncomfortably at the small of her back.

“My apologies, girls.” Her gaze falls from Clarke to Octavia who flinches away from the stare. She is deeply dry, mouth twisted in a horribly small smile when she speaks. “I was not aware you were being _paid_ to spend your time chattering amongst yourselves.”

“No ma’am, sorry ma’am.” Octavia runs hasty hands down her skirt, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles, and returns to her task of chopping through the mountain of parsnips on the broad kitchen table. Clarke chances a glance from the corner of her eyes and finds that Raven too has disappeared, leaving her to face the wrath of her new housemistress alone.

“Madam.” She bobs a quick curtsey at the woman, whose brows quirk into a frown.

“You are the girl Octavia recommended?”

“Indeed madam,” she raises her eyes and meets the housemistress’ sceptical gaze with as steady an expression as she can manage, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The housemistress swings her eyes to Octavia, who remains so focused on her work that Clarke fears she may chop through the table, before looking back to Clarke. “Do you have experience in domestic service?”

“No madam,” Clarke straightens her shoulders under a quick rush of bravery, “but I am hardworking and classically educated, I may be a great company to your lady.”

The housemistress lets out a laugh which scrapes like nails against a chalkboard and her smile turns cruel once again. “You are not here to be her _companion_ , girl. You are here to wait on the lady; dress her, bathe her, keep her rooms orderly. Be seen and not heard, am I understood?”

“Yes madam,” she bobs a curtsey again, even as the skin on the back of her neck burns with humiliation.

“I doubt you have anything to say that my lady would wish to hear, regardless,” the housemistress steps forwards, grasping one of Clarke’s hands in her own and inspecting the soft, pale skin and clean nails, her nose wrinkling when she turns her gaze back to Clarke’s. “Good god girl, have you ever worked a day in your life?”

She is saved from answering by the obnoxious ringing of one of the bells lining the upper walls of the kitchen. The housemistress sucks unhappily at her lips, making a displeased noise in the back of her throat and finally saying, grudgingly.

“Our lady has rejected almost every lady’s maid I have sent her, you will have to do.” She grasps the tray and thrusts it so bodily into Clarke’s arms that she almost stumbles back. “Do not displease her and you may last through the day. When our lady has no need of you, you will make yourself useful as a housemaid, am I understood? I will not have lazy service in my house.”

“Yes madam,” Clarke agrees, dutifully, eyes darting to where Octavia is watching them from under her eyelashes.

“My name is Mrs Myborn, you may refer to me as _ma’am_ ,” the housemistress sniffs imperiously and when the bell rings again, looks expectantly at Clarke. “Well? Tardiness is not appreciated in this household, girl.”

Clarke takes that as her cue to leave, bobbing another half curtsey to the woman as she struggles to shoulder her way out of the kitchen with the unwieldy tray in her hands. The kitchen is down a small flight of stairs and Clarke trudges her way carefully up the narrow staircase, her shoes already pinching at her toes and her arms already trembling under the strain of the breakfast tray. When she steps out of the delicate, white panelled door and onto the marble floor, it is as if the breath has been stolen from her lungs. She has to pause for a moment to take in her surroundings, hesitating under the gleaming light of the crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling to stare, agape, at the room. She has not seen such grandeur since she left her home over six months ago and now the sight almost brings tears to her eyes. Here, under the steady watch of careful oil paintings in gleaming golden frames and the swoop of marble statues, she has to stop and catch her breath. Stubbornly blinking the tears from her eyes, she forces herself to look down at the white apron sitting against her shabby dress and inhales shakily at the sudden reminder of who she now is.

It is only when she is on the first landing, hesitating by the swooping, carved bannister, that she realises no one had done her the dignity of telling her where she was actually going and she feels panic grip her like the stone hands of one of the statues. For a moment she contemplates the thought of returning downstairs, still laden with the tray, but the thought of Mrs Myborn’s glare as she is surely thrown out into the gutter is enough to push her heavy feet onwards in her pinching shoes. The first few doors she passes have been left mercifully ajar and she spies several spacious drawing rooms in gentle yellows and blues, a study with dark panelling and the picture of a scowling man over the mantle, before she comes to the first closed door.

It is quite impossible for her to lift her hand from the tray, with its weight and she spends a moment considering her options before finally lifting a foot to tap cautiously against the door. There is no response and so she continues this method, quietly pleased with herself, before finally a low voice calls out an entreaty to enter and she is able to no less than shove the door open.

It bangs against the wall and she is momentarily mortified by the sound, freezing in the doorframe to meet her new mistress’s raised eyebrow with a terrified gaze. The girl sits up in a wide, four poster bed, a stark nightdress almost blending into the pasty pallor of her skin. Dark hair tumbles around her head in tight curls and green eyes watch her with something between amusement and outrage as she edges cautiously into the room.

The drapes are still pulled shut, but some light filters in from the early morning sky and slides between the slight gap, illuminating the lady and the room in shades of white and blue, a white marble fireplace sitting comfortably close to the bed to provide warmth in the night. Clarke swings her attention back to the girl in the bed when she coughs slightly.

A flush heats her cheeks and she hurries abruptly forwards, almost tripping over her short skirts as she deposits the tray as gently as she can into her mistress’s lap.

“Your breakfast, my lady.”

“Thank you…” the girl’s voice is still pleasingly low and even, despite the fool Clarke has so readily made of herself and she quirks an eyebrow, watching the way that Clarke hesitates. “You may open the drapes,” she provides, when Clarke seems lost as to what to do and Clarke hurries around the bed to do as instructed, pulling back the thick material from the wide windows to cast the whole room in murky London sunlight.

“An orange,” when she turns, her mistress is holding the fruit between her fingers curiously and she seems to sense Clarke’s gaze, because she turns her eyes back to her and explains, haltingly. “Mrs Myborn does not usually allow me such exotic fruits… she thinks they are sure to be poisoned.”

Clarke lets out a snort and speaks without thinking, “That’s ridiculous, oranges are delicious and perfectly safe.” She still abruptly the moment her brain catches up with her mouth, frozen at the bottom of the bed and the girl blinks at her for a moment, astonished by her response.

“I see,” she says at last, placing the orange wedge down untouched and focusing her attention on Clarke. “You are my new lady’s maid?”

“Indeed, my lady,” Clarke bobs a quick curtsey, cheeks heating up again under the girl’s intense scrutiny.

“What’s your name?” The girl cocks an eyebrow and Clarke edges slowly around the bed to take her teapot into her hands, glancing at the girl to make sure she’s doing the right thing.

“Clarke, my lady.” She pours the tea carefully, her fingers still shaking.

“Clarke,” the girl echoes her name, spreading it out satisfyingly across her tongue like fresh butter. “I am Alexandria.”

There is no invitation to call her anything less than her title and Clarke just nods, swallowing against her dry throat and adding milk to the teacup, stirring gently in an attempt to not look at the girl in the bed. She had expected someone much older, but Alexandria cannot have many more years to her name than Clarke herself.

She chances another glance at her and is startled to find green eyes watching her closely.

“What can I do for you today, my lady?” She steps away from the breakfast tray, chewing on her lip as Alexandria considers her question.

“Help me dress for the day,” she offers at last, “be sure my fire is stoked. I have no intention of leaving the house today, though,” her voice drops, hinting with dark bitterness, “my uncle will surely have arranged callers.”

“Of course my lady,” she swallows at the thought of tackling the fire, but the dressing sounds almost pleasant after a morning of helping Octavia collect water and haul fresh vegetables from the market for dinner tonight.

“You may get on with the fire while I finish,” Alexandria reaches for the book sitting on her side table and then says, offhandly, “and light the candles for me, the dark in the city is ghastly.”

“Yes my lady,” she bobs a final curtsey and wonders if she should be feeling dizzy yet from so much dipping up and down.

Thankfully, the fire is already laid and she has learnt how to use a tinderbox from her many days attempting to clumsily help Octavia and her brother around their small, few rooms in a house in the east end. Carefully, she lays out the implements from the silver tinderbox and uses the flint and steel to ignite the rough linen at the bottom of the box. The spark takes almost instantly and she cups her hands carefully around the slight flame, blowing gently to encourage it to catch until she is able to light a candle with the flame and press it against the kindling beneath the logs. She can feel Alexandria’s curious gaze on her as she works, prickling at her neck and shoulders.

When the fire is properly caught she dampens the tinder and replaces everything methodically back into the box, standing to deposit the candle on her mistress’s bedside. Alexandria’s book still sits unopened in her lap, her food almost untouched and Clarke almost says something, before biting her tongue and reminding herself not to be impertinent.

Alexandria instructs her to fetch warm water and lay out her clothes while she waits and then turns back to sipping her tea and reading her book with a slight frown. The tray has been set aside in the bed in favour of curling her legs up beneath herself and she does not touch her food, Clarke notices as she slips quietly about the room, but to delicately eat the wedges of orange Octavia had fanned out for her across a small china plate.

At last, after what feels like hours but is not more than thirty minutes, most of which Clarke spends patiently waiting for instruction as Alexandria reads, the clock on the mantlepiece chimes quietly. Clarke sees Alexandria startle up in surprise, blinking at her as if she had forgotten Clarke was there. Clarke, who had been leaning against the wall and attempting not to fall back to sleep, jerks fully upright again, flushing.

“Goodness, my apologies,” Alexandria is almost amusingly flustered, snapping her book shut to rest it on the table. “I had forgotten- I lost track of the time, please excuse me.”

The words are so astonishing that Clarke can only stare at her for a moment, before gathering her senses enough to answer.

“I am here to serve your needs, my lady.”

“Regardless…” Alexandria flushes, but says nothing else as she swings herself from the bed. Clarke is surprised to find that stood to her full height, her mistress is taller than her. She had seemed so small in her large bed, dwarfed by the space and Clarke steps hurriedly out of the way as Alexandria paces past her to examine the clothes set out for her and nod approvingly.

“Yes, this will do nicely.”

To Clarke’s great relief, Alexandria does not ask her to wash her and instead goes about the task of scrubbing her face until it is bright and rosy herself. She averts her eyes respectfully, even though Alexandria steps behind the screen to slide into her petticoats and is startled by the girl’s call.

“My lady?” She responds, tentatively and hovers by the screen beyond which, she realises with a jolt, she can see the girl’s silhouette as she struggles into her petticoats. When there is no response, she steps cautiously around the screen to see Alexandria holding out her corset with an expectant air, watching her as she reaches out with shaking hands to accept the offer.

“I shall need help,” she explains, unnecessarily, and Clarke nods as confidently as she can, considering the implement in her hands as if it is a loaded musket. Lady Alexandria turns her back and gestures and Clarke takes a moment to stare at the thin material of her petticoat and the way that her hair falls in a waterfall of curls down her back.

“Clarke.” Her mistress’s irate voice snaps her from her reverie and she blinks away the haze of blue and green to hurriedly help Lady Alexandria position the corset around her waist. The lacing is fairly simple, if she thinks about it and she begins from the bottom, pulling as efficiently as she can to tighten in her mistress’s waist. Her fingers graze against the girl’s back and she attempts not to notice the touch, swallowing against her suddenly dry throat.

It is only when she is halfway up her back that she notices the way her lady has reached out to place a hand against the wall, steadying herself. Her breathing is slight and shallow and Clarke’s fingers hesitate uncertainly against the laces.

“What are you waiting for?” Alexandria demands, turning to give a glare over her shoulder.

“My lady,” she begins, anxiously, “I just- I wonder whether this is safe.”

“This is how it must be worn,” Lady Alexandria’s voice is almost tired and heavy and Clarke chews on her cheek for a moment before saying, quietly.

“Perhaps… if my ladyship were to breathe more deeply whilst I lace it you would have more comfort. It would not dig into your ribs, so.”

Alexandria hesitates at her words, glancing back again to peer at her. “Do you think that would be acceptable?” She asks, after a moment.

“Of course, my lady,” she hurries to undo the laces, watching with satisfaction as Alexandria is finally able to heave in a full breath. Of all the things she misses in her old life, this is not one of them. She begins slowly lacing the corset back up, allowing Alexandria more space to breathe and says, firmly, “the most important thing is your comfort, no fashion should come before that.”

Alexandria scoffs softly and seems to surprise herself with her own words, “if comfort were the most important thing I would wear britches all day.”

“That seems very practical to me,” Clarke agrees, after a moment of shock. The smile playing at her lips is strange and unprecedented, even as she hurries to add: “my lady.”

“Thank you, Clarke.” Alexandria tells her, softly.

She helps the girl into her dress, fastening the tiny buttons up the back with steady fingers and when she sees Alexandria heave in a satisfied breath, a wave of warmth passes through her.

\---

Alexandria retires to the library when she is done, leaving Clarke to whisk the breakfast tray back below stairs. Octavia tuts over the food remaining in the dishes and cook, who has returned from selecting the finest cuts of meat at the butchers- a job she trusts no other with- takes great pains in lamenting the poor appetite of her mistress. She is a large woman, married to a man by the name of Bustle, and Clarke thinks that no name has ever suited a woman quite so well. Mrs Bustle is plump and small, with rounded cheeks and a constantly harried nature, and seems to labour under the impression that her mistress will starve to death.

Octavia hurries to introduce her to the footman, James, and the butler Mr Darby, who give her polite smiles. James inclines his head to her and she bobs a curtsy to both him and the quiet butler, who tells her he hopes she soon finds a place here. There are only a few maids, including Octavia and herself. Mrs Myborn is quick to find fault and quick to dismiss, which often leaves them under staffed. Octavia assists in the kitchen and covers most of the cleaning, but a bucket and sponge are shoved unceremoniously into Clarke’s hands the moment she arrives downstairs and she is told to have the entry hall floor done by luncheon.

It is hard work, especially for one not used to the usual grind of household life, but she is determined not to complain and so sets to scrubbing the floor with diligence. The water is so hot it burns her hands and the soap smells so strongly that she has to turn her head and cough into her sleeves, but by the time the clock chimes eleven times she is halfway across the entrance hall. The bucket heaves under her as she carries it down the stairs to the kitchen, careful not to let the dirty water escape and make a mess. Mrs Bustle is wiping floury hands against her apron and she jumps into action at the sight of Clarke emerging into the large kitchen.

She entreats the girl to change her apron and cap and take a steaming cup of tea and plate of fresh cakes to her ladyship upstairs and Clarke, sensing the woman’s distress, hurries to comply. In the entryway a knock on the front door makes her pause and she hesitates, glancing around uncertainly in search of James or Mr Darby. The knocking comes again, more agitated and so she steels herself and crosses the wet floor carefully, balancing her tea tray against her hip as she opens the door.

A young boy, in a cap and an oversized jacket stands before her, bouncing on his heels in the late October chill.

“Can I help you?” She peers behind herself anxiously, in case Mrs Myborn should choose to suddenly appear, but the boy is blessedly quick.

“Letter for her ladyship, miss.” He holds out the small letter, printed with thin, slanted handwriting and she takes it, thanking him and shutting the door.

“ _Whatever_ are you doing girl?”

The voice is so loud that she startles around, mindless of the slippery marble and her shoes slide out from beneath her. It seems to happen slowly, she feels the tray slip from her grip, her hand flail out to grab at the delicately engraved table at her side. The tray lands with the clatter and smash of silver and china and her grasping hand, instead of finding purchase, knocks the vase close by and brings it too crashing to the ground beside her.

There is a moment of stunned, shocked silence which hangs in the air between them like dust mites caught in the evening sunlight. Clarke turns an aching neck to stare, aghast, at Myborn’s horrified face and feels her stomach sink with dread.

“Goodness!” The voice that breaks their silence comes from above, where Lady Alexandria had been leaning over the bannister with a horrified expression and is now lifting her skirts from around her ankles to hurry down the stairs towards them. “Clarke! Are you alright?”

“Your ladyship,” Mrs Myborn moves quickly to intercept her at the bottom of the stairs as Clarke flinchingly extracts herself from the mess around her, each limb groaning. “I am so sorry for the inconvenience, the girl will be let go at once, you have my assurances.”

“Please!” Clarke staggers up a step, holding out a hand, “I’m sorry, I can do better your ladyship.”

Alexandria looks between them both as if she has really no idea what to say, stumbling back up a step in the face of Myborn’s obstruction. “Mrs Myborn, I usually leave the running of below stairs to you,” she begins, eyes darting to Clarke’s pathetic figure. “You do know best after all.” Clarke’s shoulders slump and she bites harshly on her cheek to crush back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Alexandria catches her and her expression hardens, “but this time I must insist. Accidents happen after all, especially in a new place and the girl is hurt.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Clarke almost wilts under the verdict, brushing away a stray tear with the back of her hand, “thank you, I’m so sorry your ladyship. I shall clean everything up, it was not my intention to-”

“You certainly shall clean everything up,” Mrs Myborn replies, tartly, cheeks heating furiously, “and relieve your wages to the replacement and repair of everything you have broken!”

“Of course,” Clarke reaches out a hand to brings shards of crockery and crumbs closer to herself, “of course, yes.”

“Wait,” Alexandria pushes past Mrs Myborn’s figure at the foot of the stairs, hesitating a few steps from Clarke. She stares at her for a moment, as if struggling to find the right words. “I only mean- she cannot clean up in this state, she is hurt. She’s bleeding.”

Clarke’s eyes widen and her gaze flickers downwards. She has been cut, she realises belatedly, a sluggish stream of blood escaping the ragged tear in the skin of her palm and it’s as if the realisation brings her back to herself because the pain is abrupt and sharp.

“Come with me, I’ll see to it,” Alexandria tells her and if her eyes are softer, lighter Clarke can blame it on the shock of watching her housemaid fall, or the gentle candles to light up the dreary hall.

“My lady,” Mrs Myborn looks as white as a sheet, “you must not trouble yourself, one of the maids can do it.”

“I think the maids ought to look to cleaning this mess,” Alexandria replies and then smiles wryly back at the housemistress, “my uncle will not be best pleased to arrive to this.”

“Of course, my lady,” Mrs Myborn bows her head, but her lips are as tight as a seam and Clarke knows that she will feel the housemistress’ wrath later for their lady’s gentle treatment.

“Come,” and there is Alexandria, standing above her with a hand outstretched and Clarke reaches up to take it without thinking, allowing the woman to assist her shakily to her feet. “I have bandages and rubbing alcohol in my chamber,” Lady Alexandria explains, quietly and, casting a nod at Mrs Myborn, lets Clarke curl an arm through hers to help keep her upright as they make their way slowly up the stairs.

In Alexandria’s bed chamber reality seems to come crashing back down on Clarke. She remembers, from her place on the chaise at the end of Alexandria’s bed, the many instructions Octavia had given her on the behaviour of servants to their mistresses, and by the time her lady turns back to her, Clarke is halfway to standing.

“My lady,” she says, at the surprise on Alexandria’s face, “I should not be here, this is not proper in the slightest.”

“Sit,” Alexandria holds out a hand, not touching her, but a clear entreaty for her to stay and so Clarke sinks back onto the chaise with a fearful glance at her employer. “I like to think myself as not too high and mighty to take care of my lady’s maid when she is hurt.”

“You barely know me,” Clarke protests softly, but when Alexandria’s slender fingers take hold of her own she does not pull away.

“No,” Lady Alexandria agrees easily, her eyes fixed firmly on Clarke’s hand as she pulls it into her lap and douses a clean rag in rubbing alcohol. “But I think I should like to, Clarke.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Her heart feels caught in its throat as she watches Alexandria bend carefully over her hand, eyelashes like silk thread against her delicate skin, a few tender curls escaping her pins to fall over her cheek.

“This may hurt,” Alexandria warns, glancing at her worriedly but Clarke smiles a small, sad smile and assures her.

“It takes far more than a little rubbing alcohol to hurt me, my lady.”

“I see,” Alexandria presses the rag down on her cut and Clarke’s fingers flinch automatically, a hiss escaping between her teeth as Alexandria continues to talk. “Are you new to town, Clarke?”

“Yes your ladyship,” she swallows, fixing her gaze pointedly to the window across the room, where she can see trees swaying from the park across the street and hear horses stamp and winnie and men shout. “Fairly new.”

“I do not often come to town,” Alexandria’s fingers tightening around her hand are the only warning she gets that the girl has added more rubbing alcohol to her cloth and Clarke lets out a grunt. “My uncle likes for me to be seen out in society, but I would much rather be at home than here.” She gives a final pat to the wound and nods, “there, ready to be bandaged.”

“Thank you, my lady,” she does not protest when the girl adds padding and begins to wrap the wound. “Where is home for you if I may ask?”

“My family has a large estate up north,” Alexandria tells her, winding the bandage carefully over her hand, “Towerhill Hall, it’s been in my family for generations.”

“And are your family there for the winter, my lady? You have come here alone?”

Alexandria freezes under her gaze and Clarke is left to watch helplessly as the girl finishes her care in silence, fastening the bandage with a tight knot and withdrawing her hands to hold them in her lap. Finally, when Clarke is about to apologise and hurry from the room, from the house, from the city itself, she speaks. “My family are dead. My older brother died in the war, my mother and father both died of illness. I am the only heir.”

“Oh, I-” her heart aches for the girl and she goes to apologise, but Alexandria has already risen from her seat and is carefully replacing the bandages and bottle in their chest. “I am so sorry.”

“Please, don’t be.” Alexandria spares her a slight smile, as false as a pedlar’s promises, “they died when I was very small, I do not miss them much, as awful as that makes me.”

“That doesn’t make you awful at all,” Clarke’s words rush over one another like water down a narrow stream and her fingers catch at the crumpled letter in her apron pocket. “Here, my lady,” she stands and crosses the finely embroidered rug spread out across the floor to hold it out. “This came for you,” her eyes catch the name on the front and she frowns, “or at least… I think it is for you?”

“Really?” Alexandria reaches out, taking it delicately and sliding it open to pull out the small note. “ _Ah_ ,” a true, rich smile lights up her mistress’s face for the first time since Clarke met her, “it is for me, a note from my cousin. She lives in town and always pays me a visit every few days, between her many other dalliances.” Alexandria glances curiously over the envelope and smiles again, slightly embarrassed, “yes that’s me, Lexa. A family name, a pet name more than anything. Most know me by my real name but Anya and I have known each other many years.”

“It’s a lovely name,” Clarke assures her, folding her hands in front of her and watching as her ladyship carefully slips the letter into the locked drawer at the top of the writing desk.

“Thank you,” Alexandria glances back at her uncertainly, “I can trust your discretion? The maids do not usually answer my door, Mrs Myborn insists it is in bad taste, but my letters so often come to me opened that it may be a policy I begin to encourage.”

“I would never open your letters, my lady.” Clarke’s face drops in horror and Alexandria’s smile is soft and hopeful.

“No, I don’t think you would.” She brushes down her skirts, though the soft blue is as perfect as when Clarke had dressed her in it this morning, and casts an eye over Clarke’s appearance, which she abruptly realises is most likely ghastly. “You may want to run upstairs and change your dress.”

“I-I do not have anything else here, my lady,” Clarke hesitates, fidgeting, “my appointment was rather last minute, I am still at my lodgings in town.”

“Oh,” Alexandria’s face falls and she frowns, glancing back at her dressing room door, “I am sure I have something that you could wear.”

“No, no your ladyship,” Clarke protests before Alexandria can hurry away, catching herself before she reaches out a hand to stop her, “I could not possibly.” She runs a hand over the crumbs and water stains on her dress. “I will change my apron and cap, if it is not offensive to you to see me like this in your house.”

“Not at all,” Alexandria pauses, still halfway to the dressing room door and says, cautiously, “I will tell Mrs Myborn to set you up in the attics though, if you are obliging? Sometimes I may require you in the early hours and it would not do to have you walking around town that late.”

“That… would be quite acceptable,” Clarke blinks at her, surprised, “if Mrs Myborn will stand to keep me employed.” The words slip from her before she can think and she inwardly curses her quick tongue and temper, biting at her lip as she ducks her head.

Alexandria, to her surprise, lets out a soft huff of laughter, though she quickly stifles it. When Clarke chances a glance back up at her she is smiling, “Do not worry, you are becoming a great asset to me. I will not allow her to drive you out.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Clarke bobs a slight curtsy and turns to leave her.

 _Lexa_. She sounds the word out in her head. It suits her new mistress very well.

\---

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the response for last chapter! Sorry that this took a while, I'm totally buried in work this month, think kind thoughts for me.

Her new mistress’s cousin does not appear until Clarke’s third day of work for the Woodward family. Her uncle Clarke has spotted, stalking through the halls in a smart suit, swinging a cane from his hand and speaking with Lexa in serious tones when they take tea together in the drawing room. He is a frequent visitor, often bringing with him a trail of others, members of large families determined to make Lexa’s acquaintance, particularly the stream of young men in tails and top hats.

It’s because Lexa is the sole heiress to the family fortune, Octavia had told her on her first evening, when she was warming her feet close to the fire in the small apartment that the Blake siblings share. 

“Her uncle is determined that she will make a good match,” Octavia’s eyes gleamed with interest over the stocking she is patching. 

“Her ladyship seems less keen,” her brother had commented darkly from across the room, where he is carefully filling in their personal accounts book. 

Octavia had huffed at him, pursing her lips and shaking her head, “Bellamy is upset because Lady Alexandria is inheriting as a woman,” she told Clarke loudly, “and up until now she seems to be certain not to take a husband. A woman managing all of that land, can you ever imagine.” She had rolled her eyes so hard that Clarke that expected them to roll out of her head.

“Maybe she will be like her cousin and become a spinster,” Bellamy had shut the accounts book with a snap that made the candle beside him quiver. 

“Please Bellamy, you could hardly call Lady Anya a spinster.”

Now, teetering on a stepladder as she attempts to rehang the drapes in the library, after giving them a thorough beating, Clarke finally sees what Octavia is talking about. Lady Anya arrives on horseback, galloping through the gates to pull her steed to a stop outside the house. There are people watching over the fence from the street, but Lady Anya gives no sign that she sees their enquiring stares. Instead, she slides off her horse as easily as standing from a chair and straightens the top hat perched atop her head, running a hand down her skirt and riding jacket. 

Raven steps out from the side of the house, where the stables are situated, and takes the reins from the lady’s outstretched hands. They speak for a moment and Clarke watches as Raven throws back her head to laugh raucously at something Lady Anya has said. There are footsteps in the entranceway and Clarke turns in time to see Lexa rush past the ajar door. The front door opens and then Lexa is hurrying out into the open air to pull Lady Anya into a hug. 

“That’s her cousin, Lady Anya.” Octavia supplies as she heaves a basket of fresh candlesticks into the room. She comes to join Clarke at the window, on the pretence of holding her ladder, and peers out of the window at where the two cousins are speaking animatedly.

“She seems nice,” Clarke observes, “a little unusual.”

“She’s amazing, Clarke,” Octavia promises her, eyes starry, “she’s so modern and forward thinking. Do you know she’s 26 and has yet to marry? And not for lack of offers!”

“Really?” Clarke can’t help but smirk a little, “Lord Titus must  _ love _ that.”

“They clash heads constantly,” Octavia laughs, holding the ladder as Clarke climbs down. “But I think Lady Anya really cares for her, and she needs that in her life. Especially with her uncle sniffing around every bachelor in London.”

“Octavia,” Mrs Myborn appears at the door as if by magic and they snap away from their gossiping, folding their hands behind their backs to face her guiltily. “Back to work girl, or you’ll be thrown out on your ear.”

“Yes Mrs Myborn,” Octavia hitches her basket up from its place on the floor.

“And you,” she indicates to Clarke with an imperious wave of her hand, “go down to the kitchen and fetch hot tea for Lady Alexandria, wine for Lady Anya and take it to them in the sunroom.”

“Yes ma’am,” Clarke waits until the woman has cast her eyes suspiciously between the two of them and turned on her heel to leave before catching Octavia’s eye and bursting into a fit of giggles.

Lady Anya and Lexa are sat together on settee in the sunroom, which is coloured in gold and yellow and soft green, with sunlight streaming in through every large window and warming them. They are laughing together and Lexa is looking through a book in her lap with glee when Clarke knocks softly on the door and lets herself in. 

Lexa smiles at the sight of her, a soft, warm smile that seems to fit with the room and the laughter Clarke can still see in her eyes. 

“Thank you Clarke,” she gestures to the low table in front of them and Clarke obligingly sets down the tea tray. She pours out the tea into Lexa’s china cup, sneaking glances at Lady Anya, who is observing her with interest, as Lexa turns to her cousin. “This is my new lady’s maid, Clarke.”

“Nice to meet you,” Anya inclines her head, caramel coloured curls bouncing errantly as she does and watches with interested eyes as Clarke bobs a slight curtsy. 

“How do you do, my lady.”

“Clarke, this is Lady Anya, my dear cousin.” Lexa tells her, taking the offered teacup with a small smile. 

“How long have you worked here?” Lady Anya asks her as she unstoppers the wine decanter and pours her a healthy glass of ruby coloured liquid. 

“Only a few days, my lady,” She offers out the glass and watches as Lady Anya takes a sip and hums in appreciation. 

“Oh yes, Lexa you have the most wonderful collection of vintages hidden away here. I shall come more often if only to drink through your stash.” 

Clarke is momentarily wrongfooted and for a second she thinks that Lexa might take offence, but the girl only laughs again. 

“You say that every time, Anya.”

“That’s because I mean it,” her cousin replies, snarkily and Clarke bites back a smile. “Won’t you try some?”

“Oh no,” Lexa holds out a hand before Clarke can run to fetch another glass from the kitchen. “Uncle Titus does not like me to drink before an evening meal.”

“Is Titus the head of your household?” Anya cocks a challenging eyebrow and Lexa heaves a long suffering sigh, as if this is an argument she has faced too many times. 

“It is not worth the argument, Anya.” Her gaze drifts back to Clarke, “thank you, Clarke, you are dismissed. I shall ring if we require anything more.”

Though she is burning to hear the disagreement brewing between them, Clarke obediently nods. “Yes my lady.”

She hesitates outside the sunroom door, however, and listens as they begin to speak freely again. 

“Is Titus paying her?” Anya demands, darkly and Clarke feels her stomach sink when there is a moment of silence. 

“No,” Lexa responds, at last, “not as far as I know. She seems genuine Anya.”

“Be careful,” Anya warns, “Titus has his spies everywhere.”

“I know,” Lexa’s voice is sad and quiet, “don’t worry, I won’t let my guard down. She’s only a servant, after all.”

Clarke turns to flee, her stomach like lead and prays not to hear the bell until she will be able to look Lexa in the eye.

\---

She learns the truth of Lady Anya’s suggestions almost a fortnight later. She pins back the final curl of Lexa’s unruly hair into the elegant twist and presses a few diamond pins into the mass of dark hair as Lexa sits patiently in front of her dressing table. She is wearing a long, forest green gown, dark gloves rising up to her elbows and when Clarke steps back to admire her own work, Lexa smiles at her in the mirror. 

“Are you satisfied?” She asks, gently teasing and Clarke flushes even as she grins in return. 

“I should think so, my lady.” 

“You have done quite lovely work,” Lexa admires herself in the mirror and Clarke speaks before she can stop herself. 

“I have a lovely subject.”

Lexa’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, wide with surprise and startled pleasure and Clarke steps so quickly away from her chair that she almost collides with the end of the bed, stumbling back a few steps before she is finally able to right herself. When she dares to look again Lexa has averted her eyes, but there is a secret smile hidden at the corners of her lips and a blush creeping high up into her cheeks. She stands, far more gracefully than Clarke, and Clarke hurries to give her the fan sat ready on the bed and drape the soft pashmina shawl around her bare shoulders. 

“Thank you, Clarke.” She meets Clarke’s eyes again and her gaze is so tender that Clarke can barely stand to reply against the butterflies crowding into her stomach. 

“You’re welcome, your lady- I mean,  _ my  _ lady.” She stutters and bumbles over her words and forces herself to look away, afraid that Lexa will think her a fool but instead the girl only smiles again, the sort of smile that glows from inside her chest. “Have a nice night, my lady.” Clarke manages to say at last and Lexa inclines her head. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No,” Lexa adjusts the shawl around her shoulders as a ringing comes from the front door and she sighs, quietly. “That will be my uncle and his guests, I should greet them before we leave. Don’t wait for me Clarke, I can manage out of my dress. You should get some sleep.”

“Thank you my lady,” Clarke gathers the dress they had discarded earlier into her arms. “But please ring if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Lexa pauses in her door to glance back, struggling for the words for a second before finally settling, “have a good night, Clarke.”

“And you, my lady.”

Clarke watches until the door has fallen shut and then collapses onto the chaise with a staggered breath, crushing the muslin dress close to her chest. Her fingers tangle in the material as she tries to gather herself, but her thoughts are stuck on the soft upturn of Lexa’s lips and the stray curls that will surely have fallen about her arched cheeks by the time she returns from her party. Lexa is most desperately beautiful, in a painful way that suggests she knows or thinks nothing of it.

The door swings open and Clarke is on her feet in a second, busying herself with folding the soiled dress, swinging her eyes up.

“Is there a problem- oh.” It is not Lexa stood at the door, as she expected, but instead it is Lord Titus, watching her with eagle eyes. She pauses in her fumbling and frowns, “my lord? How can I help you?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Titus responds and steps far enough into the room that he can push the door shut behind him with a menacing click. 

“Her ladyship is expecting you downstairs,” Clarke speaks into the silence that rests between them. 

“I know, I shall join them in a moment I just wanted to ask after you.” Titus folds his hands in front of himself, watching her with interest. “How are you settling in here at Bechan House?”

“Well, thank you my lord,” Lady Anya’s words echo through her head like a ghost and she swallows, tightening her grip on Lexa’s dress.

“Oh yes? I suppose that having a place to stay here helps for someone of your standing.” He meanders across the room to lean against the mantlepiece and Clarke feels herself bristle when he continues, carelessly, “free up some extra money for you.”

“I guess so sir,” she sidesteps away from the bed and towards the door, “if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on with my duties-”

“Hang on,” Titus holds out a hand, brows tightening for just a moment before his face relaxes back into a mask of serene calm. “Would you like to make some more money, I wonder?”

“More money, sir?” She hesitates, shifting uncomfortably, “it’s never a harm.”

“No,” his smile is predatory, like a cat stalking a mouse and Clarke feels a shiver run down her spine at the sight of it. 

“What would I have to do?”

“Nothing nefarious,” he insists, still smiling and pushes himself away from the mantlepiece to tilt his head in her direction thoughtfully, “I just want to make sure a close eye is kept on my niece. So if you could report to me any worrying habits or correspondents she may adopt I would be very grateful-”

“Spy?” Clarke splutters, her expression twisting as Lord Titus’s lips tighten. “I couldn’t my lord! Not on her ladyship!”

“It’s for her own good,” he assures her calmly and Clarke backs away another few steps towards the door, knuckles whitening over the dress, “I know what’s best for her you see, and I would make it worth your time.”

“No! No, thank you.” Before she can say anything that will likely get her cast out of the house she turns on her heel and races out of the room, taking the steps downstairs so quickly that she almost runs straight into Lexa, leaving the parlour. Her mistress reaches out a hand to stop her, concerned, but Clarke dodges her and slips down the kitchen stairs as quickly as she can, heart thudding in her chest. 

She still feels as if Titus’s eyes are fixed to her.

\---

Clarke still sits awake in her small attic room when she hears the front door open and close. She is dressed for bed, in her nightgown with her hair braided down her back and tied with rag, a woolen blanket pulled up to cover her shoulders and keep her warm. Her candle had long since burned down, but the moon shines in through her thin curtains to illuminate the room in watery light, casting towering shadows in the corners. She is consumed by Lord Titus’s words, they seem to eat away at her until there is nothing left but his voice, bouncing around her bones and inscribing themselves into her skin. In the dark her mind runs rampant and she imagines that the words lie beneath her skin and pulse with light, clear as day for Lexa to see. 

She listens closely to the footsteps as they make their way to the first floor. James had opened the door for Lady Alexandria but she soon hears him tramp up to the men’s quarters in the attic. All is quiet and Clarke has almost drifted to sleep when she hears the click of a door opening and the pad of feet descending down first the main staircase and then the second to the kitchens. Nobody else stirs, not even Mrs Myborn and Clarke lies awake, staring at the ceiling for a few moments as she considers what to do. 

Titus’s words continue to stir under her skin, like bad spirits trapped within her and finally she pushes herself from her narrow bed before she has a chance to reconsider and slips downstairs, the blanket still clung like a cape around her shoulders to ward off the evening chill. She intends to tell her lady, intends for her uncle’s traitorous words to be the first thing that leaves her mouth when she sees Lexa, but when the kitchen door opens to reveal her ladyship in a similar state of undress, only a white nightgown and robe, hair loose and spilling over her shoulders, Clarke’s words disappear from  her tongue. Lexa turns guiltily to look at her, like a child caught thieving from the larder rather than the mistress of her own home. 

“Oh Clarke,” the relief on Lexa’s face is palpable as she turns back to attempting to fill the kettle from the tap. “I am sorry to disturb you, please return to bed.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?” Clarke can’t suppress her giggle when Lexa turns the tap too rapidly and a tide of water overspills, splashing against her robe. “Please, let me do that.”

“No,” Lexa protests, but she readily steps away from her post when Clarke approaches. “I’m sorry,” she hovers uncertainly behind her, looking awkwardly out of place in the earthy kitchen. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I simply wanted some tea.”

“I can make that for you,” It is only in the light from the streetlamp shining in through the kitchen window that Clarke sees the red that rims Lexa’s eyes or the tears that stain her cheeks. “My lady, whatever is wrong?”

“Nothing at all,” Lexa gives her a bright smile, false and sickly sweet and Clarke watches her skeptically for a moment before finally acquiescing. 

“Go to bed, my lady, I’ll bring up your tea.”

“Clarke, I can’t let you,” Lexa reaches out, entreating her, but Clarke is firm. 

“You’ll freeze down here without slippers, my lady, we can’t have you taking ill. It’s no trouble.”

Lexa watches her for a long moment, her lips pursed in thought before she finally relents. She makes her way to the doorway, but her voice pulls Clarke’s attention back when she says. “Bring a cup up for yourself,” The blonde hesitates, brows pulling together in confusion and Lexa’s expression slips and softens. “If you want to.”

Clarke ducks her head in a nod and hopes it hides her smile.

When she arrives upstairs it is with a tray laden with teacups and a plate of sweetmeats stolen from the pantry she finds Lexa sat at a chair beside the fireplace, burning low with embers, a blanket pulled over her knees. She looks up at Clarke’s entrance, smiling at her through the soft light of the gaslamp on the mantlepiece and gesturing her closer. 

“Thank you Clarke,” she says, earnestly, taking a cup of sweet tea from the tray and cradling it between her hands to inhale the steam gratefully. “You are much better at this than me.”

“I am paid to be, my lady,” Clarke quirks a smile in her direction, slipping hesitantly onto the rug in front of the fireplace to take her teacup in her hands. She takes a sip, glad of the hot liquid as it warms her throat and coils sleepily in her belly. “But I am glad to help you.”

“I told you I would not disturb you when I came in,” Lexa insists, pursing her lips worriedly. 

“And you have not,” Clarke shrugs off her concern as easily as an old coat, letting it slide from her shoulders, “did you have a pleasant time, my lady?”

“Quite pleasant, thank you,” she seems distant, so very far away in that moment that Clarke feels as if they separated by more than just class and wealth. 

She takes another sip of her drink and considers her words for a moment before she speaks, hesitantly, “if there is anything you want to talk about my lady… you have my confidence.”

“Nothing,” Lexa’s eyes fall to her tea as she sips quietly and Clarke cannot help but press her. 

“You’re sure?”

“Clarke,” her eyes snap up from her teacup and her voice is suddenly severe and stern, sending a shiver down Clarke’s spine, “mind your tongue.”

“Of course, my lady,” she glances away, biting at her cheek to stop any further remarks. 

“But thank you for your concern,” Lexa has softened again and when Clarke looks back to her she is smiling, “and the tea, I appreciate it.”

“Was there dancing?” She chances, looking up from beneath her lashes when Lexa gives her a rueful smile, but answers gracefully. 

“Yes, there was.”

“Did you dance with many bachelors?” Clarke grins impishly when Lexa lets out a long suffering sigh, but feels a rush of affection when Lexa tucks her feet up beneath the blanket and pulls her hair over one shoulder, looking suddenly young. 

“A few.”

“Any to your liking?”

Lexa’s face falls and she bites her lip, eyes dancing away nervously when she answers, quiet again. “No, though my uncle is sure I should marry.”

“That’s no more your uncle's business than mine.” Clarke answers and this time she meets Lexa’s gaze challengingly when the girl quirks an eyebrow. They watch each other for a few long moments, but before Clarke can become distracted by the golden veins running through Lexa’s eyes, illuminated in the lamp light, Lexa turns away, blushing prettily. 

When she speaks it is so nervous that Clarke is endeared to her. “What were you doing awake when I came home? It’s late.”

For a moment Clarke considers Lord Titus’s words, feels them sitting on her tongue like a lead weight, but in the face of Lexa’s shy enjoyment she cannot bring herself to shatter the mood between them. Her silence is clearly enough to worry Lexa, who reaches out a hand to touch hers, fingers skating across her skin and catching Clarke’s breath in her throat. 

“Do you miss home terribly?” Lexa’s brows crease worriedly and she slowly sets the tea cup on the table beside her. 

Clarke swallows, unable to look the girl in the eye as the butterflies in her gut turn to thick, choking ash. “No,” she manages, at last, “I am happy here, working for you.”

“Clarke,” Lexa gives her a rueful smile, “you cannot be  _ happy _ working for me. Do you not want a home? A husband?”

“No,” she replies, honestly, “that’s not- I’m not- that’s not my place for now. And besides,” she replaces her mug onto the tea tray and stands, clasping it close to her chest. “Who would fetch you tea if I were off starting a family?”

Lexa watches her for a few moments, clearly unconvinced, but does her the respect of smiling thinly and nodding. “That’s true.” She places her cup on Clarke’s tray and stand turning the gas lamp down to a low burn and sliding her robe off to leave it cast over the chaise at the end of the bed. “Thank you, Clarke.”

“Is there anything I can do for your ladyship before bed?” Clarke watches as she slips into bed, curling her fingers more tightly around the tea tray in an attempt not to reach forwards and brush back a curl falling in front of Lexa’s eyes. 

“No, thank you Clarke.” Lexa settles into the bed and watches Clarke through the dim light. “Sleep well,” she tells her quietly and Clarke smiles, unable to help herself.

“You too, my lady.”

\----

They fall into a comfortable rhythm. Lexa is not often away at parties and gatherings, as much as her uncle may want her to be, but when she is Clarke will force herself to stay awake until the moon is high in the sky above them, awaiting the tired footsteps of James opening the door. When is all quiet and settled again she slips downstairs and collects hot tea and sweetmeats- shortbreads, candied fruit, anything to hand- to take up to Lexa’s bedroom. Lexa is always awake, always waiting with a blanket tucked around her bare feet and if Clarke notices the way her eyes light up upon seeing her, she doesn’t say anything. 

She sinks to the floor, bringing her knees to her chest and talking quietly with Lexa until the clock strikes the hour and Lexa, inevitably, apologises for keeping her and rushes her back to bed. The girl has a startling wit, her mind is quick and she is easy to laugh when she relaxes enough to allow herself to. Despite the veneer of severity, she is soft and funny and so remarkably gentle that sometimes it makes Clarke’s heart ache. 

On her fourth visit she stops short in the doorway at the sight of the new armchair, facing Lexa’s.

The girl looks at her anxiously, and explains, “I had it brought up for you, so you wouldn’t have to sit on the floor.”

Clarke is sure that her heart grows at the words. 

\----

“Clarke!”

She startles back a pace at the sound of her name, turning to scan the entrance hall until she sees Lexa, a smile on her face as she beckons her over. Mrs Myborn is with her, a disapproving frown on her face and Clarke forces her eyes away from the older woman to land on her mistress. 

“Yes, my lady?”

“Thank goodness you’re here, you could be the answer to our problems.” Lexa turns back to Mrs Myborn, who quickly schools her features into an expression of vague interest, “Mrs Myborn, surely Clarke could wait at the table tonight?”

Myborn’s expression turns to one of horrified shock and she gapes from Lexa to Clarke and back again as if she can’t quite believe what she’s just heard. “My lady,” she splutters at last, “there is no way- it is not  _ proper _ for a maid to wait at the table! What will people say?”

“They won’t care,” Lexa waves away her concern with a flutter of her hand and Clarke recognises her expression as one of complete certainty, “and with James taken ill and Octavia and the other girls required in the kitchen there is no one else to take his place. Mr Darby can’t serve alone.”

“Do you have any  _ experience _ ?” Myborn demands of her, eyes widening in triumph when Clarke replies.

“No, but I can learn,” she hurries to add, turning to Lexa, “I won’t let you down, I promise.”

“Of course you won’t,” Lexa’s smile grows and she reaches out to brush Clarke’s elbow so softly that Clarke should think she imagined it if it were not for the darkening of Mrs Myborn’s eyes. “I have every faith in you, thank you Clarke.” She turns back to Mrs Myborn with a pleased smile, “there we have it, Mrs Myborn, the dinner party can go on as planned.”

Clarke quietly wonders if she should be expected to make it through the night, with the housemistress’ expression so murderous.

\---

“ _ Always serve from the left, hold the tray close to their plate and allow them to serve themselves. Serve the most honoured guest first and work backwards from there.”  _

Octavia’s words of advice, tossed her way in between stirring sauces and chopping vegetables, ring in her head as Clarke dips slightly to offer the heavy bowl of potatoes to Lord Titus. He takes his time collecting them and spooning them onto his plate before Clarke is finally able to relieve her aching back and seizing knees and move on to the next guest. 

Lexa catches her eyes from across the table and smiles slightly, before reluctantly turning back to the man beside her, nodding wanly as he continues his story. 

Mr Darby is watching her and she can feel the eyes of Mrs Myborn on her from the small antechamber off the dining room. The conversation ebbs and flows in gentle chatter and she tries to concentrate on doing everything right. It is not a large party, only Lexa, Lord Titus, Lady Anya and a few friends, but Clarke knows that the people who matter are watching her carefully and she had assured Lexa she would not embarrass her. 

The potatoes successfully served, she catches Mr Darby’s eye and he quirks his head as they settle into their meal. She joins him at the sideboard and he speaks in a soft murmur.

“Serve the wine, I have to consult Mrs Myborn and Mrs Bustle on the next course. Be invisible until you are needed, then be prompt.” He nods to the crystal decanters lining the sideboard and at Clarke’s mute nod, disappears into the antechamber. 

Her gloved hands are slippery against the glass, but she takes the wine in hand and turns to watch the conversation, which is broken only by the tap of silver on china. 

“I say, did you hear about what happened to the Griffins?” The man at Lexa’s side leans over to address the table, eagerly and Clarke feels her whole body go rigid. 

“Oh yes, the scandal? Terrible thing that, I hear they’re all wanted by the police. Now they’ve been flung to the corners of the country in hiding.” Lady Anya chews through her chicken, answering with lazy disinterest but Clarke can barely hear her over the sound of her own heartbeat. She’s sure she must have turned pale as a sheet and she can feel the cold sweat beading on her neck and soaking her skin in dread. 

She sucks in a shaky breath in time to hear the end of Titus’s spiel, “-whatever happens the family are sure to be found.”

“It’s awful, do you think the father really killed that politician?” The third lady at the table fans her face with a jewel laden wrist and when Titus gestures for more wine it takes Clarke several seconds to gather herself enough to shakily serve him.

“Surely not,” Lexa muses, taking a sip from her glass, “my father had had business with the Griffins before he died, they weren’t friends but he always said Lord Jacob was a nice enough fellow.”

“Looks can be decieving,” Titus warns and then brushes Clarke abruptly away, “that’s enough girl! You’ll spill!”

“Sorry sir-” Clarke takes a stumbling step away, blinking when she realises how full the glass is.

“Apparently,” the first gentleman continues, eager to regain centre stage, "they are hiding out, pretending to be middle class even. Lord Everton told me at a dinner last week that the cousin is even acting as a governess somewhere up in the north! Can you believe it?"

"Disgraceful," Lord Titus grumbles, spearing a green bean aggressively, "if they are innocent they should own up and step forwards, this will never do."

Clarke wonders if it is too late to pour the wine decanter over his head.

"But it's not only the police they're frightened of uncle," Lady Anya retorts, "Mr Johnson, the politician, had friends in high places. Apparently they have half of the gangs in London after them and the police won't do much to protect the family."

"They were new money," Titus disagrees as Lexa catches Clarke's eye and discreetly touches her empty glass. "And they had radical liberal tendencies, you know that. They were probably socialists."

Clarke leans over to carefully fill Lexa's glass, trying to calm her shaking hands and desperately frayed nerves.

"You can't say that, uncle!"

"The police will soon find them and they'll all be put in the tower if there's any justice."

"Clarke," Lexa touches gently at Clarke's hand, pulling her to a halt as she murmurs, worriedly, "are you alright? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Though she was trying to be discrete, all eyes at the table turn to them and Clarke feels herself flush brightly as she rushes back a step from the table. Casting her eyes down and clutching the decanter she gives a false, quavering response.

"Quite alright, my lady."

"You're sure?" Lexa watches her, even as she retreats rapidly to the sideboard and Clarke gives a hurried nod as they lose interest in her. When they are again engaged in their own conversation she lets out a soft, shaky breath and forces their words out of her head. It's too much for the moment, scraping at a wound too raw to even be considered, so she forces herself to watch the rise and fall of the wine glasses and forget all consideration of the Griffin family.

\---

Octavia holds her while she cries later that night, hidden away in the cold, musky stables. The girl cradles her close, running soothing fingers through her tangled hair and offering empty reassurances until Clarke has finally sobbed every tear.

"I'm sorry," she mutters as she brushes hair back from her face, cheeks flushing when she spots Octavia's sympathy through the moonlight. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, you've done me a great kindness by allowing me to stay with you and getting me work here."

"You were in danger, Clarke." Octavia's hands grasp hers and she forces her eyes up. "There was no way we could turn you away when Lincoln brought you to us."

"I owe you my life," she tells her, simply and Octavia just tightens her grip.

"You're safe here, they won't find you. I promise."

\---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I love how soft Lexa is in this fic omg. Let me know what you thought either below or on tumblr (@onemilliongoldstars), I'll try to get the next chapter out much more quickly!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry that this has been so long coming! March was disgustingly busy for me, I'm in my last semester of my undergrad so I'm feeling the stress at the moment, with all of my deadlines coming at once. Hopefully updates will be more regular from now on! (hopefully)

Lexa looks somehow even more beautiful in the sunlight.

She's not sure how, exactly, but the girl has managed the impossible and Clarke is left in awe of her. On a rare sunny day among the cold months, Lexa asks Clarke to bring them tea outside when Anya brings her loud, raucous younger brother with her to visit them.

Aden is only 12, with the rosy cheeks typical of a child who is well fed and happy and Lexa is content to watch from the patio while Anya runs back and forth with the boy in some wild, incomprehensible game in the small garden at the back of the house.

"She will be a great mother some day," Lexa tells her, suddenly and Clarke turns to look at her with surprise, uncertain if she is being addressed until Lexa looks up at her with a smile. "Not that she will ever marry, I expect."

"She's a wonderful woman," Clarke agrees truthfully and then adds, "I have never quite met anyone like her."

"Neither have I," Lexa sends a fond smile in the direction of her cousins, "neither has anyone."

Clarke hums softly in agreement and they are quiet again for a few moments, Lexa sat in a chair with a blanket tossed over her legs to ward off the early December chill, Clarke a few paces behind her.

"Do you want children, Clarke? That is, unless you already have them."

"My lady!" She adopts a tone of great offence, pressing her hand to her heart. "You know I am an unmarried woman, how could you possibly think me such a harlot?"

"Oh, no!" Lexa turns in her chair, her expression one of great consternation, "no that isn't what I meant at all! I only-"

"My lady- my _lady_ -" Clarke forces her voice over Lexa's, pressing back a large grin, "I was only teasing you, I'm not offended."

"Oh," Lexa sinks back into her chair with a relieved sigh that quickly morphs into annoyance. "Clarke! That was not kind!" This time Clarke can't help but laugh and Lexa pouts adorably, "and to think, I was going to offer you a candied apricot."

Clarke's eyes immediately shift to wide wonder and pleading, "My lady, they're my favourites! I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have tricked you, it was cruel of me..." She gives Lexa the best pleading expression she can come up with and the brunette is strong for only a moment before finally acquiescing with a put upon sigh and pushing the bowl towards Clarke.

She eagerly takes a sweet, sitting it upon her tongue and humming quietly in pleasure when the sweet, fruity taste melts over her tongue. It tastes of home, of nights curled in front of the fire while her father read aloud to her and her mother and for a moment she can hear his voice and feel her mother's hands running over her hair to send her to sleep and she feels a bite of nostalgia so hard that tears rise to her eyes.

"Clarke?" Lexa, as ever, misses nothing and is frowning when she reaches out to touch Clarke's shoulder.

"Sorry," she brushes rapidly at the tears forming on her cheeks. "They remind me of home."

“You don’t speak much of your home,” Lexa’s kind eyes light up curiously and Clarke stutters over her words for a moment, “do you have fond memories of it?”

“I- yes, yes my lady, very much so. My mother and father and I- we were all very close. Especially my father, he was the kindest man I ever knew.” Her breath hitches and she has to tear her gaze away, blinking rapidly.

“I’m glad to learn you had a happy childhood,” her mistress’s eyes have darkened and they venture out to look at Anya and Aden again. When she speaks it is in soft tones, touched by the shadow of sadness. “It is very important. What was your father like?”

“Tall, with a gentle face. He taught me to paint when I was very young,” laughter flutters up from her chest and bursts from her lips, unbidden and on the edge of hysteria. “I still remember my mother scolding us when we came to the table with paint on our fingers. I have not seen them in a long time.”

"Oh, I'm sorry," Lexa's fingers tighten around her shoulder and she sniffles hurriedly, "if you miss home so much Clarke you are welcome to an afternoon, or even a day off, to visit them."

Clarke's heart almost breaks at the sight of Lexa's earnest expression and she shakes her head, forcing a smile onto her face. "No thank you, my lady. It's rather more complicated than that."

Lexa's expression closes in and she retreats back into her chair, letting her fingers drop from Clarke's shoulder as she nods and Clarke cannot bear to leave their conversation on such a poor footing, so she runs her fingers over Lexa's hand, which jolts but does not move.

Lexa's eyes move up to her, wide with surprise, and Clarke says, as sweetly as she can, "but thank you."

Lexa only nods again, but their fingers stay tangled until Anya and Aden race up the frosty steps towards them.

\----

On Christmas Day she waits at the table during the great luncheon, in which Mrs Bustle produces a spread as fine as any Clarke has ever seen. The house is filled with friends of friends and distant relatives, none of whom Clarke recognises and Lexa sits in the centre of the whirlwind, making polite small talk as she eats.

Later, when she is helping Lexa change into her formal evening dress, forcing her eyes away from smooth skin and gentle curves, Lexa places a hand on hers to stop her as Clarke carefully places a fine silver comb into her dark locks.

“Just a moment, Clarke.”

“Is something wrong?” She frowns, withdrawing her hands so quickly that Lexa eyes widen.

“No, not at all. I only-” she is blushing, fumbling over her words endearingly and Clarke can’t press back her smile when Lexa stands.

She hurries across the room and roots through the usually locked drawer of her desk, before returning to Clarke’s side with a small package wrapped in brown paper. Lexa is flushing when she presses the gift into Clarke’s surprised hands, but she determinedly refuses Clarke when the blonde tries to return it, folding her hands in front of herself to say, firmly.

“No, I want you to have it.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Clarke brushes her fingers over the soft, velvet blue ribbon it is tied with and raises her eyes to meet Lexa’s anxiously. “I’m afraid I have nothing for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lexa’s smile widens, “you do enough for me every day Clarke, I just wanted to show my appreciation.”

“You pay me to do my job, my lady,” Clarke can’t help but smile wryly, even as she carefully untangles the pretty ribbon and unfolds the paper.

“Regardless,” Lexa watches her anxiously as she pulls open the gift, “I just thought… since it’s Christmas…”

Her words die away but Clarke does not notice, she is staring down at the beautiful sketchbook lying in her hands, rich, thick paper encased in dark leather with swirling gold embossed across it in dreamy patterns. Beneath it sits a case of sketching pencils and a collection of luxurious oil paints, with a roll of brushes. She is so awe struck that she cannot tear her eyes away, as if fearing they will disappear if she does. She hasn’t picked up a pencil in nearly a year, let alone set her sights on items of such luxury and she is so touched that she can barely speak for the tears welling in her throat. Blindly, she gropes in her apron pocket for a rumpled handkerchief and presses it against her eyes with a choked sob.

“Clarke?” Lexa’s hand touches at her shoulder, fingertips brushing against the yoke of her dress and against her neck and Clarke cannot bear it for a moment longer. “Is everything-”

She launches herself into Lexa’s arms before the girl can react, gifts discarded on the chaise but for the blue ribbon which is clutched between her fingers. Her nose is buried in the crook of Lexa’s neck amid soft, sweet smelling hair and her arms wrap around Lexa’s shoulders, drawing her in so closely that their bodies are crushed together. It takes the brunette a moment to respond and just when Clarke is about to pull away slender, elegant fingers wrap around her waist and return her emotional embrace with gentle kindness.

Clarke stays in Lexa’s arms for a moment, gathering herself enough to speak and Lexa seems happy to allow her to spill her tears against the skin of her neck, one hand rising hesitantly to rub soothing circles against her back.

When Clarke can finally pull away enough to look Lexa in the eyes her vision is blurred by tears. “I’m sorry my lady, that was inappropriate.” She drops her arms, steps back to create some distance between them and though Lexa allows her to go, she reaches out and catches Clarke’s hand, pulling her to a stop and drawing her eyes up.

“No, please… I don’t mind,” Lexa gives a small, nervous smile and in that moment she looks so beautiful- almost glowing in soft white muslin and silk, silver and snowdrops in her hair- that Clarke is left breathless. “Really.” Lexa’s fingers squeeze earnestly at hers and Clarke returns the smile, letting her fingers linger.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Happy Christmas, Clarke.”

\---

As the harsh January frost falls over the house, Lexa is taken ill with a nasty flu. Clarke returns from an errand run into town, shivering in her thick woolen cloak and soft clothes, basket bouncing against her hip as she tries not to slip in the ice, to find the doctor’s carriage parked outside and her stomach sinks. With no regard for the ice, she darts up the steps and into the hallway, where Octavia and another housemaid, Harper, are gathered talking in hushed voices and watching up the stairs.

“Clarke!” Octavia turns at the burst of cold air, “thank goodness you’re back.”

“What is it? Who’s ill?” Clarke peels her gloves off frozen fingers, stuffing them into her apron pocket.

“Her ladyship,” Octavia glances back up at the staircase, from which loud voices are arguing, “they found her with a high fever this afternoon, in the library. Did you know?”

“Not at all,” panic is swelling like a wild beast in her breast, coiling as if to strike at her heart and she swallows, tearing off her hat and cloak and bundling them into her arms. “She seemed well this morning, slightly quiet but completely normal!”

“Lady Anya and the doctor are having an awful row with Lord Titus,” Harper supplies, pushing back a strand of sandy hair which has escaped from her starched white cap.

“About what?”

“The doctor thinks Lady Alexandria needs new medicine, but Lord Titus won’t hear of it.” Octavia helpfully takes the basket from Clarke’s elbow. “They’ve been arguing for twenty minutes. I wouldn’t go up there now, you’ll only be caught in the middle of it. They’ll ring if they need something.”

“Will she be alright?” Her cheeks are flushed and she feels as if heat is crawling under her skin, struggling to escape.

“I hope so,” Octavia states, dryly, “or we’ll all be out of work.”

\---

She is called upon once the doctor has left, though Lady Anya and Lord Titus are still stood in Lexa’s room, glaring bitterly at one another. Mrs Myborn lingers in the corner, clearly ousted by Anya from her place as nurse at Lexa’s bedside and when Clarke enters, a basket of firewood in hand, there is a conspicuous silence. She hesitates in the doorway for a moment, looking between Mrs Myborn and Lady Anya, forcing her eyes not to pause on the pale, small form in the bed lest she should burst into tears in front of them all.

“Come in,” Myborn instructs at last, beckoning her impatiently, “stoke the fire.”

She does as she is told, crossing the room quickly to kneel on the rug before it- where the new chair still stands like a physical manifestation of their guilty rendezvous- and feed wood into the fire. Behind her Anya is pressing at Lexa’s forehead with a damp cloth and Lexa, though weary and fever addled, is trying to quash the growing squabble between the two.

“These new medicines are too dangerous,” Titus purses his lips, glaring down at Anya with intense displeasure, “I cannot allow Alexandria to take them.”

“You know nothing about medicine, who are you to say what Lexa should and shouldn’t take? She could be well in mere days if you would only see sense!” Anya argues hotly, though when Clarke chances a glance back her fingers are still gentle against Lexa’s forehead.

“I know enough not to take risks with the only heir to the estate left!”

“That’s all you ever care about,” Anya scoffs disdainfully, “the precious estate, the family name. Have you no shame?”

“This is far more than just _one person_ , this is a legacy, a duty and responsibility-”

“Stop,” though her voice cracks and is thin and reedy, Lexa’s command immediately halts the disagreement brewing. “Please,” she sounds slightly weaker, cutting herself off to cough noisily. “Don’t argue.”

“But Titus won’t see sense,” Anya grasps her cousin’s hand, impeaching her, “you have to understand this is the best way forwards, Lexa.”

There is a long, pregnant pause and Clarke wishes dearly that she could turn around to watch them, but instead she stays facing the fire, moving as slowly as possible to avoid attracting attention.

“Uncle Titus usually knows best, An,” Lexa says at last, sounding tired and defeated. “I will try without the medicine, if things get worse we can always turn back and the doctor says it is only a flu. Plenty of people recover from the flu nowadays.”

“Thank you, Alexandria,” Lord Titus sounds irritatingly smug about Lexa’s decision and Clarke has to press her lips together to keep from biting sharply back at him.

Lexa’s voice has hardened when she continues. “That being said, I will rely on the doctor’s knowledge uncle, not yours. If the doctor decides the medicine is necessary, rather than just recommended, then I will be taking it regardless of the risk.”

Titus is quiet for a moment, stewing before he finally admits defeat. “As you wish.”

“Good,” there is a rustle of sheets and blankets and Lexa’s voice becomes muffled and heavy, “now I am tired, please leave all of you.”

Clarke stands, shuffling away from the fire and filing towards the door behind everyone else. She hesitates in the doorway, and dares to glance at where Lexa sleeps. There is only the quiet rise and fall of her chest, breathing steadily and she takes a long breath before finally turning and letting the door close.

\---

Over the next few days, Clarke becomes a nurse. She is glad to, stays up until she is drifting asleep in her chair next to Lexa’s bed before finally trudging downstairs to call for Octavia. She drags herself up the three flights to her attic room and curls up on the hard, narrow bed beneath her blankets to fall straight to sleep, regardless of the winter sun shining in through the window. From there she only catches a few restless hours before she is up again, dirty hair pulled back into a tight bun behind her cap, eyes dark with bags but teeth gritted with determination.

Lady Anya looks in on her on her second day and Clarke moves respectfully away to pretend to sort through a few pieces of laundry, though Lexa has not moved from her bed in days. Lexa is barely coherent, so their conversation is short and halting, but Anya is unerringly gentle with her cousin and does not begrudge her the short conversation. As she is standing to leave she hesitates and turns back to where Clarke has returned to Lexa’s bedside with a cold cloth to touch at her sweat soaked forehead.

“Myborn tells me you are taking good care of my cousin?” She enquires, watching Clarke with a shrewd expression.

“I hope so, my lady,” Clarke removes her rag to dip into cold water again, wringing it thoroughly between her hands, then asks hesitantly, “do you think… Lady Alexandria will be alright? Why does she let Lord Titus persuade her from the medicine? Why is it his place?”

Anya’s lips quirk up a little and she gives Clarke an approving nod. “You are observant,” she notes, “my cousin is very trusting of our uncle, she feels she owes him a great deal for the way he helped her after her parents’ deaths.”

Clarke’s brows furrow, but she does not dare to ask any more. Instead she nods and seats herself next to Lexa’s side, “she should trust herself more.”

Anya’s half smile grows. “Yes, indeed she should.”

\---

Despite protests, Clarke cannot bring herself to leave Lexa’s bedside. She works tirelessly to keep her mistress as cool and comfortable as possible as she battles through the fever that has taken hold of her. Lexa is caught in fitful dreaming, surrounded by sweat soaked sheets and it is only in her moments of slight lucidity that Clarke is able to press a glass of water up to her lips.

Clarke keeps the fire stoaked and replaces the blankets when they slide off the bed under the power of Lexa’s thrashing. She soaks a rag and keeps Lexa’s temperature down, presses boneset tinctures onto her tongue and steams the room to ease her heaving chest. When Lexa is peaceful Clarke curls her feet under herself in the chair pulled up beside the bed and opens one of the books on Lexa’s bedside table to read to her. The book isn’t wonderfully exciting- before the family’s downfall Clarke’s heart had always been set on the romances of Austen, or even the more risque works of the authors before her- but Lexa’s great tomme on the downfall of the French monarchy is thick in her lap and soothes Lexa when she is wrapped in fevered dreams like a swaddling cloth.

Octavia’s soft knock on the door is familiar to her now and she calls out quietly for the girl to enter, letting her feet fall to the floor and slide back into her discarded shoes.

The girl smiles at her from the doorway, placing the basket of wood beside the chair and approaching them cautiously. “How is she?” Octavia peers down at Lexa, who is still but for the gentle movement of her chest.

“Much the same,” Clarke worries at her lip with her teeth, standing. “If the fever doesn’t break soon, I think Lady Anya should call for the doctor.”

“Yes,” Octavia sighs, “but she’ll be fighting an uphill battle against Lord Titus.”

“She will,” Clarke observes Octavia carefully as she turns and pulls a folded paper out of the wood basket, dropping it onto the bed.

“Here, I pinched this from Mr Darby,” Octavia grins, “I thought you might need to be reminded of the real world.”

“Thank you,” she replies absently, pressing a cool cloth to Lexa’s forehead and soothing her when she twists and mutters incoherently in her sleep. She quietens after a moment, falling back into a peaceful slumber and Clarke looks over at where Octavia is restocking the basket of wood next to the fireplace. “Octavia,” she begins, hesitantly and Octavia turns to look at her with an open smile. “Do you think Lord Titus has Lady Alexandria’s best interests at heart?”

Octavia’s face immediately closes up and she frowns, pausing before she answers to feed a few more pieces of wood into the dying fire. When she finally answers, it is with cautious nonchalance. “Why would you ask that?”

“He… once asked me something odd.” She can’t stand to look at the girl and instead focuses on brushing back the damp strands of hair from Lexa’s cheeks and forehead, fingers slipping across soft skin.

“Ah,” Octavia stands and hoists the empty basket into her arms, “so he asked you?”

Her head snaps up and her fingers still, resting against Lexa’s cheek, “he’s asked you too? What did you say?”

“I told him I wouldn’t spy on my lady,” Octavia’s face relaxes the second Clarke’s does and she lets out a relieved sigh, slumping, “you did as well? Thank goodness, he usually gets the lady’s maids.”

“Lexa said her letters always used to come to her opened,” Clarke frowns. “When he asked I told him there was no question, I would never do it. How many other members of staff does he have under his thumb?”

“Mrs Myborn, Mr Darby, James,” Octavia lists, frowning, “one of the housemaids, but not Mrs Bustle or me or Harper.”

“How can they possibly do that to her? She’s meant to be their mistress, they should be _loyal_.”

“They’re poor Clarke, they want money. And if she knows, she doesn’t treat them any worse for it.” Octavia sighs, shaking her head.

“She’s too kind,” Clarke glances back down at the girl, purses her lips anxiously, “she suspects, Lady Anya too.”

“I doubt she will ever act on it,” Octavia observes, quietly, “she is more devoted to Lord Titus than he deserves.” She slips from the room and Clarke sinks back into the chair beside Lexa’s bed, pursing her lips.

The girl is still and quiet beside her, peaceful for the moment, and Clarke cannot help but stare at her. Her skin is soft and smooth and pale, as delicate as china, and rosebud lips part just slightly to suck in breaths while she sleeps. Despite her illness Lexa is still enchanting and Clarke wonders at what she would do if they had met only a few months earlier, catching the girl’s gaze across a ballroom and pursuing her until they eventually became drunk on fine wine and exchanged kisses and shallow promises in a darkened hallway. The thought makes her flush so deeply that she has to tear her eyes away from her mistress’s prone form and instead lights on the paper Octavia had smuggled upstairs for her.

Plucking it from where it lies on the bed, Clarke once again curls her feet up beneath her on the chair and flicks open the front page with a quiet rustle. The print is dark and small and she is quickly bored by the politics and economics pressed together on the first page or so. She reads through an article on Mr Salisbury’s plans for Portugal, but the headline on the next page catches her eye halfway through and her breath catches in her throat at the sight of it.

_Lord Griffin and wife found and arrested, suspects of murder investigation_

She can feel her breath stuttering from her throat, can feel the paper biting into her skin as her fingers tighten and curl around the edges of the newspaper. The smell of ink from the page and the bags of dried lavender in Lexa’s bed are suddenly so overwhelming that she discards the paper on the bed and launches herself across the room to retch into the chamber pot dryly. After a few moments the spasming roll of her stomach subsides enough for her to lift her haggard face up, staring at the paper as fresh horror rushes through her body and settles like suffocating dread in her stomach.

Slowly, Clarke hauls herself across the room until she is staring down at the open newspaper. _Lord and Lady Griffin_ , it reads _, have been arrested for the murder of politician Harold Johnson after being hospitalised. The two were found assaulted in Brighton, police suspect the involvement of London gangs-_

“Clarke-”

The sound of her name makes her jump so much that she slams her knee against the corner of Lexa’s bed. Cursing softly, she turns to blink blearily at where Lexa is once again restless, tossing and turning beneath her covers. Her lips open and close, half formed words sliding from her lips and she reaches out, grasping above the bedclothes for something unseen.

“No- Costia- no-” the words are half a jumble, twisted and skewed almost beyond recognition and Lexa writhes upon the bed, the columns of muscle in her neck straining when she pushes her head back against the covers and cries out, sharply. “Cos! Plea- please-” she trails off, voice cracking and weakening and her grasping fingers unclench a little. “Clarke.” The word is barely a whisper, but Clarke cannot hold herself back for a moment longer and sinks onto the bed, letting the newspaper fall, forgotten, to the floor.

“I’m here.” She feels odd and awkward speaking to someone unconscious, glancing anxiously at the door, but when Lexa lets out another pitiful sound Clarke curls her fingers into hers and squeezes. “I’m here,” she reassures her again, with more certainty and feels a flush of pleasure when Lexa sinks peacefully back into the mattress. She tightens her fingers again, lingering for a second longer to feel the twitch of Lexa’s fingers in response.

Lexa is peaceful again in moments and the newspaper is slid under the bed by idle feet, out of sight if not mind.

\---

Lexa recovers slowly, like a bird with a broken wing, and Clarke refuses to leave her side as she slowly shifts back into full health. Being confined to a bed frustrates the mistress of the house more than can be imagined and Clarke spends most of her time thinking of new and creative ways to keep Lexa beneath her covers as her temperature slowly returns to normal and her lucidity and strength return. She reads to her, long books on wars and monarchs and politics which she cannot stifle yawns throughout.

Once, when she almost nods off halfway through a long book on theology, she jerks her chin up from where it is coming to rest on her chest to blink blearily at Lexa. Lexa is smiling at her, the secretive half smile she sometimes does when she thinks that Clarke cannot see her. She meets her eyes defiantly when Clarke purses her lips at her and asks, a hint of laughter to her voice.

“Would you rather read something else Clarke?”

The true answer is of course yes because she cannot imagine anything worse than reading another long, preaching chapter on the morals of man, but she straightens her spine and lifts the book, muttering stubbornly, “no, my lady.”

“If you say so,” Lexa gives her a look that clearly shows she doesn’t believe her and when Clarke pokes out her tongue, Lexa lets out a snorting laugh that shocks them both so much that Clarke begins to giggle as well and Lexa clasps her hands in front of her mouth.

When Lexa is able to sit up, close to being well again, they sit together and play wist or rummy. Lexa shyly presents Clarke with a beautiful pack of illustrated playing cards and asks her to please shuffle and then proceeds to gracefully win every round they play.

“Clarke,” she laughs, as Clarke collects up the cards from one of their many games, “we don’t have to play if you aren’t enjoying yourself.”

Watery sunlight streams in through the tall windows, streaming across the room and over the bed and Lexa’s hair is braided neatly down her back, a green shawl thrown about her shoulders. Though still pale, some colour now remains in her cheeks and her eyes are bright and lively with mirth.

“No, I want to play again.” Clarke protests stubbornly, shuffling the cards expertly in her hands and if Lexa’s eyes linger for a moment too long on her quick fingers she pretends not to notice.

“Really though,” Lexa busies herself with untangling a stray thread from her shawl as she speaks, determinedly not meeting Clarke’s eyes. “You have been with me dawn until dusk for days, you must be getting sick of the sight of me.”

“Not at all my lady,” Clarke’s fingers still and her eyes dart up to frown at Lexa, “I’m your lady’s maid, it’s my duty to serve you in whatever manner I can.”

Lexa gives her a smile at that, small and grateful and relieved, but continues on to insist, “even so, I insist that you take an afternoon off today. I am feeling much better and you deserve the rest from playing nursemaid.”

Clarke hesitates, brows furrowing until she finally nods her head. “Thank you, my lady. As long as you are sure you are well?”

“Quite sure,” Lexa reaches out and presses her fingers to the back of Clarke’s hand, smiling gently, “thank you, Clarke. Please go and enjoy yourself.”

\---

The fish factory that she steps into is dark and cold and smells so foul that Clarke has to hesitate in the doorway to clutch at her stomach. Voices behind her shout for her to move and she stumbles two steps inside before darting out of the way of a man rushing with a wheelbarrow filled with slippery, fresh tuna fish, glassy eyes staring ghoulishly up at Clarke. Her nose wrinkles and she clutches her gloved hands more tightly together in front of her body. The smell will surely linger in her skirts and hair and boots and she sighs at the thought of hours spent late tonight trying to scrub out the odour with hot water and stinging soda.

Steeling herself, she straightens her back and pushes through the bustling crowds of workers filleting bones, shining knives swinging down on heads and scales covering their hands and digging under their nails. They are all hard at work, but they pause at the sight of a young lady edging her way between them and she tries to keep her face impassive when catcalls and hollering start to follow her through the workmen. She peers through the gloom for a familiar face, but when a hand wraps around her arms she shrieks. Spinning, her hands at the ready to shove away the intruder, her tension drops away at the sight of Lincoln’s smile.

“Lincoln!” Clarke beams, half relief and half joy at the sight of an old friend. “I was hoping to find you here.”

“Lady Clarke,” he ushers her quickly away from peering eyes, helping her back through the crowds and into the open, busy London street air, wiping his dirty hands as discreetly as he can on his apron. “What are you doing here? This is no place for a lady.”

“I was hoping to find you,” she confesses, “Octavia told me where you would be, I hope that’s alright.”

“Whatever you need, my lady.”

“Lincoln,” she begins, uncertainly, “you have always been a loyal friend to my family, a good servant. I was hoping you might know-”

“Know what has happened to your parents?” He finishes, when she stalls over her words and she nods fervently, her heart clenching when he bites on his lip.

“Anything you could tell me… I read that they had been injured.” She tries to swallow the bile rising in her throat.

“So I had heard, my lady.” Lincoln admits, softly, “they were in London… searching for you.”

“What?” Her face falls, aghast, “why? They told me to keep out of sight and safe until all of this had blown over!”

“From what I understand his lordship was struggling with your loss.”

“How are they now? Are they safe?” Her fingers rise and she wraps her arms around her waist, grounding herself as best she can. She fears that if she doesn’t she may simply float away.

“Safe enough in prison,” Lincoln informs her darkly and then continues, glancing around anxiously, “I am worried for you, Johnson’s gangs are likely looking for you to get to your father now that he is surrounded by police. You should leave the city.”

“I can’t…” Clarke stares at him, mouth dropping open in horror, “I’m Lexa’s lady’s maid.”

“You have no need of the money,” he implores, desperately, “there are plenty of family friends who would happily take you in on the moors or in the highlands. Go to them, as quickly as you can.”

“I cannot leave Lexa without a maid, it’s… my job now Lincoln. A secure source of income, I am lucky.”

“Indeed,” Lincoln’s quiet agreement calls her attention, and she watches the way he adjusts his filthy apron half heartedly, her heart softening.

“I am sorry that our fall has resulted in such hardship for you,” she apologises earnestly, “If you want to change to work more suited to you, Lexa may always have need of another footman.”

Lincoln gives her a weak smile and asks, tentatively, “does Octavia still work for her ladyship?” and Clarke cannot help the smile that creeps up over her lips.

“I believe so,” she tells him, lightly and presses back a laugh when he looks bashfully away, before continuing more somberly.

“I do think that you should leave London as soon as you can, my lady.”

“I will try.” Behind them the bells of a local church begin to chime and Clarke sighs, glancing back at it anxiously, “I should be getting back, we shouldn’t be seen together and Lexa will be trying to get up for dinner.” She reaches out and touches his shoulder very gently, giving the warmest smile she can. “Thank you for your help Lincoln, my family and I owe you a great debt.”

“I’ve always believed your father’s innocence, my lady,” he nods soundly and she drops her hand to wrap her coat closer around her body when a cool wind slides up through the frosty streets. “I’m happy to help.”

“I am always glad to see you, you should visit Octavia again soon,” she laughs quietly when he smiles despite himself. “She would be so happy to see you.”

“Do you think?” He can’t seem to control his childlike eagerness.

“I’m sure of it.”

“Thank you my lady, I will.” He folds his hands behind his back, inclining his head to her as she tugs her hat more firmly onto her head in preparation for the journey home. “Be safe, getting back.”

“I will,” she assures him and starts past him, hesitating after a few steps to turn and call him back from the doorway of the factory. “Lincoln, call me Clarke,”

\----

Somehow, she can tell within a few steps of Lexa’s bedroom door that something is not right. There is a restless energy in the house, her way up the servants stairs and to her attic room to discard her dirty clothes on the bed had been uninterrupted and it feels as if everyone is hiding below stairs or in deserted hallways, keeping out of sight. She readjusts the apron around her waist, tugging at the bow on the small of her back anxiously and knocks quietly at Lexa’s room.

A soft entreaty to enter greets her and when she swings the door open she is greeted by clothes tossed around the room like a hurricane has hit it. Clarke falters in the doorway, eyes swinging from where Lexa is stood in the middle of it all, pale as a sheet and still in her nightclothes, her shawl hanging about her shoulder like a limp rag, to the mess of the room.

“My lady,” she takes an anxious step forwards, but is halted by the hand that Lexa holds out.

Her mistress stands close to the window and she is stiff as post, shoulder drawn and tight. Turned slightly away, Clarke can only make out the silhouette of her face, cast in shadow by the late evening light pouring in and she watches, frozen, as Lexa tips back her head. Her throat bobs as she swallows and Clarke sees the delicate lace of her eyelashes blink quickly over sparkling eyes.

“What’s wrong?” She tries again to move closer but Lexa’s quavering voice stops her in her tracks.

“I am leaving.”

“Leaving?” Her eyes widen and her stomach swoops in horror at the word. “What do you… why?”

“I need help,” Lexa continues as if Clarke hasn’t spoken, “if you would fetch my cases from the attic I would be obliged.” She sounds empty, her voice low and monotonous. The only sign of the fervour that has gripped the room is the quiver and break of her voice.

“Your cases? You hadn’t mentioned anything about-”

“Go, Clarke!” Lexa rounds on her in a sudden wave of fury, chest heaving with desperation. “In fact first, help me to dress, I cannot do _anything_ in this state.” She throws the shawl from her shoulders and onto the floor in disgust, but Clarke can see the way that she is trembling.

“You’re not well enough!” Clarke argues, fervently, taking a few steps through the tide of belongings until she is close enough to reach out and try to guide Lexa back to the bed. “You must rest!”

Lexa throws off her touch as furiously as she did the shawl and glares at her, eyes alight with anger. “If you will not help me, I will find some other lady’s maid who _can_.”

“No,” fear strikes through her chest like a bolt of lightning, so frightfully strong that it nearly steals away her breath entirely and she softens under Lexa’s shaking fury. “No, I’m sorry.”

Lexa stares at her for a moment and Clarke notices, abruptly, that her eyes are red rimmed and her cheeks are stained with tears. Then, at last, so quietly that she sounds as if she may break, “you’ll help me?”

“I will.”

All of the anger falls out of Lexa, sliding to the ground, and she softens with it. Gently, as if treating a spooked mount, Clarke guides Lexa to the stool in front of her dressing table and bends to collect the discarded shawl. With all of the tenderness in her suddenly swollen heart, she drapes it back around Lexa’s shoulders and when their fingers brush as Lexa reaches up to take it from her, she stills for a moment to allow Lexa the touch.

Carefully, she takes a brush from the table and begins to slide it through tangled brown locks. They sit it quiet peace for a few minutes and Clarke watches from the corner of her eyes as Lexa slowly shrinks back into herself, her breathing evening out and her eyes returning to their usual brightness.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs at last, meeting Clarke’s eyes in the mirror and saying, more clearly. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, you didn’t deserve it.”

“Thank you,” Clarke runs the brush through her hair, carefully unravelling a few of the worst knots. “Could you tell me where we are going?”

“Anywhere,” comes the taut reply, “far away from here. Home again.”

“Back to the north, my lady?”

“Yes,” Lexa’s eyes meet hers again and Clarke watches her, her question caught in her throat like a frightened bird.

“Will I accompany you?” She manages at last.

Lexa lets out a long, staggered breath before finally answering, calmly, “only if you would like to. It’s a long way, but…” in the mirror, Clarke watches her bite at her lip. “I should be very glad to have you.”

“Then I will be glad to be there,” she touches Lexa’s shoulder with the tips of her fingers and tries to ignore the blush that rises up her ladyship’s neck and onto her cheeks.

“I will tell you why,” Lexa tells her, abruptly and Clarke is pulled from her reverie, brows furrowing as she looks back to Lexa’s shadowed eyes in the mirror. “I promise just… not yet. For now, please just trust me.”

“Of course, my lady,” her fingers tighten a little over Lexa’s shoulder and Lexa lifts her hand to place it over Clarke’s, a warm, comforting weight.

\----

The bags are packed by the next day and Clarke gives Octavia a quick squeeze in the hallway where she, Mrs Myborn and Mr Darby are seeing them off. Octavia’s arms are solid and grounding around her and when Clarke pulls back she feels a moment of panic at the thought of being without her.

“Thank you,” she says, softly, and Octavia’s smile is practical and reassuring.

“You’ll be back,” she tells her, certainly, “until then, stay safe.”

“You too,” Clarke sighs softly, looking back at where Mrs Myborn is imploring Lexa.

“Are you sure you don’t need me, my lady? How can you manage with only a lady’s maid?”

“I will have Mrs Dewry and Mr Dewry; don’t worry, Mrs Myborn.” Lexa glances up with a tight, reassuring smile from where she is fighting to slide on her gloves. She is laden in furs and a thick coat to keep the chill from her still fragile bones, and Lady Anya rolls her eyes from beside them.

“She will be fine, Myborn,” Anya interjects when Myborn begins another round of persuasion. “Have fun, relax.” Anya turns back to Lexa to instruct her firmly. “I shall be up to see you in no time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lexa laughs as Mrs Myborn falls back into line, and Clarke steps hesitantly forwards to help her with her gloves. The exertion of being up is clear from the way her fingers are trembling and Clarke gently pries the gloves from her hands and begins to ease them on. “You hate the countryside-” Lexa cuts herself off to smile gratefully at Clarke, eyes so soft it’s almost painful.

“There’s good shooting,” Anya argues, “I’ll be up to see you, don’t bother starting a disagreement.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Lexa chuckles dryly, and when Clarke looks up to smile at her, she finds that Lexa’s eyes have not yet left her. With careful fingers, Clarke does up the two satin buttons that sit on the insides of Lexa’s wrists, her touch brushing the soft skin and if Lexa trembles slightly it can easily be put down to her illness, as can the flush that sits high on her cheeks.

The buttons done, Clarke has no further excuse to stand so close and slowly inches back, gathering the last case into her arms as Lexa self consciously adjusts her gloves. She turns back to her cousin, who is grinning and steps forwards to give her a swift hug.

Clarke is close enough to hear when Anya tells her, quietly. “Do not listen to Titus, he is a bully. You will be glad to lose him in London for a while.”

“He is probably right,” Lexa murmurs, easing back with a resigned sigh, but Anya holds her still by her shoulders, forcing her eyes up.

“He is _not_ ,” she bites out firmly, and Lexa smiles, nodding and leaning in to kiss her cousin’s cheek chastely.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much if you're still with me! Let me know what you thought below or over on tumblr @onemilliongoldstars!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn guys, get ready to feel romantic af
> 
> sorry for the wait everyone, please dig me out of this pile of uni work.

The moorlands are quiet and peaceful and yet they seem to breathe new life into Lexa. The journey takes them several hours by train, in which Lexa sits in a first class carriage alone and Clarke fumbles through the bustle of third class, attempting to keep hold of her bag. She sequesters herself in a corner to stare out of a window as the landscape turns to rolling fields of green and grey and great seas of conifers that stretch further than the eye can see.

She sees the change the moment they step onto the platform at the station. Gone is the trembling woman who could not fasten her own buttons, here Lexa is bright eyed and rosy cheeked, brimming with excitement as she beams at Clarke across the platform.

“What do you think?” She spreads out her hand as if the station itself is her dominion.

Clarke tries not to laugh. “It is a train station, my lady.”

Lexa has the sense to look embarrassed, flushing prettily and smiling.

The carriage is waiting for them at the station and Lexa introduces her, with a beaming smile, to Mr Dewry, the aged butler-turned-coachman who dosses his cap politely and helps Clarke secure their cases to the back of the carriage but is quiet. When Clarke goes to clamber up next to him in the coachman’s seat, Lexa swings open the carriage door and looks at her, imploring.

“Oh Clarke, please do join me.”

“But…” she hesitates, half hoisted into her seat and glances at Mr Dewry as he adjusts the reins and soothes the waiting horses, “it’s not proper, my lady.”

“I don’t care about propriety here,” Lexa insists, patting the spot on the bench beside her. “Let me show you my home Clarke, please.”

The pleading look in Lexa’s eye is enough to break down her fragile walls and when she slides in next to Lexa in the seat the girl reaches down to toss the waiting blanket over both of their knees.

Lexa seems to know this land by heart. Each street corner has a story, each tree a tale, each farmhouse a friend or tenant who wave at her carriage as they go by.

“This is Polis,” Lexa explains, as they drive through the cobbled roads and strange mixture of old and new buildings that make up the town. The roads are appalling and the paint is peeling from the street signs, but there is a comforting bustle to the quiet town. It’s the sort of place that Clarke thinks she could sink nicely into and be forgotten forever.

The further they drive, the more the countryside stretches out before them. Soon the houses and shops fall away to allow room for great swathes of greenery, separated only by the delicate lines of green hedges that roam between them, marking one tenant’s land from another’s. Horses graze, and cows and so many sheep that Clarke wonders if her eyes will soon turn to wool from staring at them. In the distance she can see rising hills and after several miles to their left she spies the sliver of silver that betrays the sea, raging far below them.

“You really are at the edge of the world,” she murmurs, glancing over at where Lexa is staring out of the window with a comforting, peaceful smile settled over her lips.

“Where no one else dares to venture.” Lexa agrees, softly and then turns to meet her eyes, “I hope you’ll like it Clarke.”

“I’m sure I will,” she answers, earnestly and when delicate fingers find hers beneath the blanket and twine close together, she feels a flush of warmth and joy.

\---

It takes her several days to learn her way around Towerhill Manor. The Dewrys are very kind and helpful; Mrs Dewry- old and nearly blind as she is- gives Clarke a quick tour of the servant’s quarters and they are more extensive than any she has ever seen before. The house itself is made from soft, pale sandstone from nearby quarries and built with an echo of the gothic design so popular at the beginning of the century. It is filled with tall arched windows that let in the light and several great towers spiralling up and out of the rooftops as if searching for heaven- though Clarke is sure she’s already found it. Out of every window is nothing but gardens and lands, all of which Lexa modestly takes a claim to, and Clarke revels in the space.

On her third day, when Lexa is left waiting half an hour for Clarke to bring her next course to the table in the parlour, Lexa kindly suggests that they eat together, if only to help Clarke learn her way around and be sure she gets a chance to eat. It feels odd to sit down with Lexa the next day and at the same time so familiar that Clarke is almost comforted by it.

Lexa spends much of her time in the library, while Clark attempts to help Mrs Dewry air out the rooms that Lexa may most want to use: the dining room, the day room and several guest bedrooms. It is long and tiring work, as most of the house is draped in white sheets for the season, but there is a hot meal opposite a beautiful woman awaiting her at the end of the day and Clarke finds she cannot complain.

Once, several days into their stay, Lexa joins her where she is washing and dusting the ornaments in the day room. Clarke looks up, startled, and rushes to stand, and Lexa hesitates in the doorway.

She has a book clutched in her hands and her eyes are alight with nerves as she says, uncertainly. “May I come in?”

“Of course, my lady.” Clarke carefully replaces an antique clock on the mantleplace.

“I was wondering if I could sit in here,” Lexa stays in the doorway, frowning slightly. “Would I be in your way?”

“Not at all,” Clarke is pulling her rag between her fingers nervously. “But I may disturb you.”

“You won’t!” Lexa reassures her and hurries straight for an armchair close to the window, settling down and placing her hands over the cover of her book. “I thought I could… read aloud to you? Make your work go faster?”

As tempting as the offer is, Clarke cannot help but ask. “Are you sure you want to?”

Lexa nods slowly, biting her lip. “It is lonely,” she admits at last, sighing, “without you… in this house. I like the quiet but I find… some company would be nice.”

She can’t press back her smile and ducks her head to hide the way her eyes light up at Lexa’s hesitant words. “I would love to hear you read, my lady.”

\---

Mr and Mrs Dewry do not live in the house; instead they inhabit a small cottage half an hour’s walk from the house, in the grounds. Every day they trundle up to the house in a small horse and cart and though Mrs Dewry offered a room in their home fervently, Clarke quietly pleaded that she couldn’t leave Lexa alone in that large house throughout the night. She spends her first few nights in a small room in the highest reaches of the attics, where the servant’s quarters are completely deserted apart from her.

It is cold and drafty and she clings the covers close around her chin when the wind creaks the rafters.

The sleepless nights begin to show in the dark circles beneath her eyes and when Lexa insists that she explain herself one morning as Clarke cleans out the fireplace, she tiredly relays her childish fears and chilly toes. Lexa hums sympathetically and says nothing else, but when Clarke helps her undress that evening Lexa wraps a robe around her nightgown and leads Clarke to a door inlaid into the wall of her bedroom. Behind it sits a small room, filled with a bed and dresser and writing table. The bedframe is white and iron wrought, a tall window is covered by beautiful drapes and a glass vase of violets, sitting on a lace doily, is perched on the dresser.

“It used to be common for lady’s maids to live close to their mistress,” Lexa explains, haltingly, as Clarke stares, “the room was still there so Mrs Dewry and I aired it for you, if you want it?”

“Want it?” Clarke steps hesitantly inside, fingers trailing along the blue and white wallpaper that covers the walls. A small fireplace is stocked, a basket of wood beside it and when she sinks onto the bed the mattress gives beautifully beneath her. “I couldn’t accept this, it’s too much.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lexa can’t help but smile. “It’s the least I could do for you.”

\---

Despite the isolation- or perhaps because of it- Lexa thrives in her own home. The colour returns to her cheeks, she wakes early and eats heartily, and when Clarke and Mrs Dewry finally deem her well enough she wraps herself in a heavy cloak and scarf and sets out along the fields to see her lands again. She returns smiling and more utterly content than Clarke has ever seen her, clutching a handful of heathers and wildflowers which Clarke obligingly arranges for her in a vase beside her bed.

When the dreary February rains confine her inside the house she seems to arrive miraculously in the parlour where Clarke is dusting, or the dining room where she is polishing silver, or the bedroom where she is folding linen. Soon it becomes routine to spend their days together in the few rooms they frequently inhabit upstairs. Clarke perches on a chair in the corner to slowly mend dresses with missing buttons or coats with ripped stitching and Lexa settles herself into her writing desk to respond to letters or on the settee to read. It is so peaceful that the days seem to slide by in a dream, like silk slipping between their fingers.

In her first few weeks at home Lexa plays host to visitors from Polis. The vicar, the doctor in the small hospital and several tenants in farms over her lands come to pay their regards. She is patient and kind to all, but there is a sense of awe that hangs about every visitor when they speak to her.

When the rains finally subside and a weak, watery sun peers out from between the clouds, Lexa has Clarke dress her in a soft green dress and pin her curls up neatly at the back of her head.

“Will you accompany me into town today?” She asks, as Clarke places her breakfast before her.

“If you want me to,” Clarke smiles easily and slides into the chair beside her at the long dining table. “When would you like to go?”

“This morning if possible,” Lexa is pushing her eggs about on her plate, sliding them from one side to the next and Clarke taps at her hand gently, drawing her from her reverie.

“You’ll have to finish your breakfast, or Mrs Dewry will never allow you out,” when Lexa gives a rueful smile and takes a bite of her eggs, Clarke continues, “do you have anything in particular you need from Polis? I can run any errands for you.”

“No,” Lexa shrugs, avoiding her gaze, “I just want to see the town…” she finally meets Clarke’s eyes and gives her a sheepish smile, “this may sound silly but I feel as if I owe it a debt. My father always used to say that we were responsible for the well being of our people, that our privileges came with duties. I can’t help my people unless I know what they need.” She flushes, laughing quietly at herself, “I sound like some sort of feudal lord.”

“No,” Clarke touches at her hand again where it is fidgeting with the napkin against the table and Lexa stills under her touch, looking at her from beneath her lashes. “I think it’s honourable that you care about people this much.”

“Thank you.” For a moment they simply watch each other, hands frozen together on the table in front of them and there is nothing but the faint tick of a clock and the wind against the windows, before the door swings open. They startle away from each other and Clarke scrambles up from her seat as Mr Dewry steps into the room. His eyes swing between them, but doesn’t comment on their flustered expressions.

“A letter for you my lady,” he offers a silver tray with a single letter upon it and Lexa takes it with a soft word of thanks.

Their eyes meet again as Mr Dewry steps back out into the hallway again and Clarke has to press her lips together to keep from giggling like a child.

\---

“That would suit you.”

The voice startles her away from the jewelled hair pin she is enraptured with, fingers falling away from the silver filigree and blue stones and she flushes a little, pushing a strand of hair away from her eyes.

“Thank you, my lady.” She watches as Lexa steps away from the case of fans she had been absently looking over and approaches her, “but it was… impertinent of me to even look.”

“Don’t be silly,” Lexa frowns, “why should you not look? A girl as beautiful as you should have beautiful things.” She presses her lips together on her words, eyes widening as if she too cannot believe what she has just said and Clarke lets out the breath that has caught in her throat. Her lips are parted in surprise and she glances hurriedly back to check that the shopkeeper is still engaged with her other customer.

When she looks back Lexa is blushing furiously, determinedly staring out of the shop window and Clarke swallows before answering, quietly.

“That’s very kind of you, but I would have no occasion for such a thing. It would only be wasted on me.”

Lexa finally manages to look at her, eyes wide with anxiety and uncertainty and Clarke can’t help but touch gently at the crook of her elbow, nudging her towards the door.

“If you’re done here my lady, we should be making our way home.”

Lexa gives a stiff, stilted nod, eyes flickering down to Clarke’s touch and Clarke almost pulls her hand away before steeling herself and guiding Lexa back out towards the door. She removes her touch only when they are in full sight of the watching street again and as they begin the slow walk towards the waiting carriage, Clarke risks a peek at Lexa’s still flushed cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Lexa says at last, as the carriage comes into view, one of the farmhands waiting nearby to drive them home.

“For what?” She enquires lightly, shifting the basket in her hand onto her arm.

“I shouldn’t have… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Lexa is squirming beside her, worry radiating from her stiff shoulders and jaw.

“You didn’t,” Clarke dares to reach out again and pull Lexa to a stop. They are surrounded by busy townspeople, but she ignores their prying eyes when she reaches out to twine their fingers together, Clarke’s now worn rough from her work, Lexa’s encased in the softest leather of kid gloves.

“But I-” Lexa fumbles over her words and Clarke cuts through her.

“Lexa,” her fingers tighten and Lexa’s eyes meet hers, as green as the forests that rise up to the west, “you _didn’t_. Please believe me.”

The words hang between them like the ringing of the first note of a great symphony and Lexa lets out a slow, astonished breath that quivers out of her, tentative and so so soft.

Clarke feels warmth blossom through her chest and settle in her heart, and her stomach swoops as Lexa steps away and she can’t stop her eyes from following her.

\---

“Do you ride?” Lexa had asked her, that morning as Clarke, still bleary from waking before the sun, had laced her corset.

“I used to,” she answered, absently, as the laces slid between her fingers methodically,

“Can you still?” Lexa turned to peer over her shoulder at her, long, unruly hair slipping in front of Clarke’s work.

“I expect so,” she frowned until Lexa sheepishly pulled her hair back over her shoulder.

Mrs Dewry is still as disapproving now, stood at the doorway ringing her hands in her apron, as she had been two hours ago, when Lexa had proposed the idea of company on her ride. Clarke can feel her anxious stare boring into the back of her head as she swings herself up into the saddle with help from the hired stable boy. Lexa is already on horseback, her legs swung neatly into side saddle, her skirts draped perfectly to cover any indecency.

Clarke feels dreary in comparison to her. Lexa is dressed in a pressed black riding dress and a slim jacket, white buttons shining. Her hair had been pulled up into a neat twist by Clarke that morning and she has a dark top hat pinned to her head, the riding crop held neatly in one hand as she steers her restless mount around to watch Clarke settle with the other. Clarke’s own drab, grey coat and grubby skirts are nothing next to her and she ties the ribbon holding her straw hat to her head tightly beneath her chin as the cook continues to angst in the doorway.

“You will be safe?” Mrs Dewry is looking between them.

“Of course, Mrs Dewry,” Lexa smiles kindly, steadying the horse with a hand against his neck. “I have been riding these moors since I was young, I promise we will be quite safe.”

“And don’t forget the lunch,” Mrs Dewry takes a few steps towards them, descending the grand stone steps but pausing just shy of the gravel driveway.

“I have it, Mrs Dewry,” Clarke assures her, stiffening when the horse sidesteps beneath her.

“Come,” Lexa leans up from where she has been soothing her horse, “we must be going.” She clicks her tongue against her teeth, nodding her head to Mrs Dewry and starts off at a swift trot down the driveway.

Clarke fumbles with the reins between her fingers for a moment, before squeezing her heels. Beneath her, the mare jolts into action and follows Lexa’s mount. It has been far too long since she last rode, but after a few moments of uncertainty Clarke finds herself remembering every lesson she had ever had, her father’s loving touch, the curl of a young man’s arms around her waist as they ride, and her heart soars at the familiar feeling.

From a few feet ahead of her, Lexa turns and gives a teasing smile, “come along Clarke, we haven’t got all day.”

She lets her mouth drop open in mock horror as they traverse away from the driveway and into the open fields and nudges her mouth a step faster until they fall into line with Lexa. “Are you implying that I am slow, my lady?”

“I would never dare,” Lexa’s smile widens until she is practically glowing with it, cheeks rosy in the brisk wind. “Even if you are,” she adds, daringly and Clarke’s mouth falls open with her hurt pride.

“I see. Well then, you’ll have no trouble keeping up with me.” She squeezes her heels together and her horse startles into a gallop beneath her. As she rides, she can hear Lexa’s startled laughter behind her and when she dares to glance around, the girl has started after her, smile stretched wide and curls escaping across her forehead and cheeks, beautiful and young and free.

\---

The land turns from green to grey to vibrant purple as they ride. Eventually they slow back to a walk, their cheeks pink from the excitement and the wind and their hair dishevelled, but neither of them care. The hills grow and shrink around them and rivers stretch in the cradle of the mountains, westward to where the sea glimmers like a sliver of silver in the distance. Crumbling stone walls, barely able to hold their own weight, let alone their animals, marr the land like veins across pale skin and herds of sheep scatter upon their approach. On the hilltops wild horses graze, their manes long and twisted, their eyes sharp with focus, but pay them very little mind. Trees cling to the hillsides, so gnarled that they look as if they have been there since the birth of the land itself, clinging on through bitter wind and rain. The ground beneath them is uneven, but the horses have grown up here and they- and Lexa- are used to picking their way through the undergrowth.

Lexa points out her lands to her, explains how her mother and father had inherited it, with her father’s old title and her mother’s new money, and had kept the lands running for so many years. She tells of each hamlet in their care, knows each tenant farmer by name and only comes to a sudden halt when she sees Clarke’s fond smile.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“It must have been hard,” she can’t help the tenderness slipping into her voice, “taking on your father’s mantle, especially as a woman.”

“It was,” Lexa glances away, her eyes settling on her fingers where they hold the reins. “My uncle Titus was a great help.”

Clarke hums quietly in agreement and glances up at where the sun is shining down on them, free of the dark clouds for the first time all day. “Shall we stop to eat, my lady?” She asks, lightly, “while the weather holds?”

“That may be a good idea,” Lexa agrees and they come to a stop in a grassy clearing, beside the river. The valley is like two hands, cupping them in its embrace and protecting them from the cold wind.

Clarke unloads their lunch, stretching out a blanket and laying out the cold meats, cheese and fruits on china plates as Lexa ties their horses to a nearby tree, leaving the mounts to graze.

“Thank you,” Lexa settles onto the blanket beside her and accepts the plate Clarke assembles for her, taking it into her lap and slipping off her gloves.

“Of course, my lady.” She begins to pulls bread and cheese onto her own plate, when Lexa’s quiet voice stops her.

“Don’t…. Don’t call me that.”

“My lady?” Clarke pauses, frowning at her curiously and Lexa swallows uncomfortably.

“Please, you don’t have to call me that.”

“But… what else could I call you?” Slowly, she places her half empty plate in her lap and watches Lexa closely, holding her breath.

“Alexandria or… or Lexa, if you wish.” Lexa’s gaze is so tentative and uncertain beneath her lashes that Clarke almost reaches out to touch and reassure her. “My friends call me Lexa.”

“Lexa.” She feels the word on her tongue. Though she has said it many times before it feels different now, heavy and sweet, laden with promise and hope. “Yes… I should like that… if you don’t mind.”

“Probably only when we’re in private,” Lexa amends apologetically, “but I feel as if… we are more than lady and servant.” At Clarke’s nod, Lexa steadies herself and continues, “then… I shall call you Clarke and you shall call me Lexa. Because we are… friends.”

“Friends,” Clarke agrees and takes a sip of water to mask her smile. They eat in silence together for a while before Clarke asks, after minutes of agonising thought, “may I ask you something, as your friend?”

Lexa seems startled by her words, but gathers herself after a few moments to nod silently.

Clarke steadies herself, gathering her courage, “what made you leave London in such a hurry? What did Lord Titus do?”

Lexa grows pale, gasping softly and tearing her eyes away to stare down across the fields.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke feels instantly foolish, “I shouldn’t have asked, it’s not my place-”

“No,” Lexa’s voice is shaking slightly, but she is determined, “no, I said I would tell you. It is only fair that you should ask, especially when I have brought you up here to a strange place, away from your friends and family.”

“Lexa,” the name still feels oddly sweet on her tongue, thick like honey, “I’m happy to come. This place is so beautiful, I’d never been past Manchester before this.”

“Even so,” Lexa gives her a weak smile, “I owe you an explanation. My uncle is determined I should marry; while you were out, he brought several young men to the house to ask for my hand and demanded that I accept one of them. He said he would… put my inheritance in peril if I did not.”

“But how could he do that?” Clarke can feel her blood heating, fury stirring in her breast as she demands, “You are the rightful heir!”

“I have… things in my past that Titus knows about. My status as a female heir is already precarious. He could easily use them to have me declared unfit to inherit.” Lexa cannot stand to meet her eyes.

“So… you ran from London?”

“I had to be away from him,” she gestures to the fields that surround her, “I used to think he only wanted what was best for himself, but now I wonder… perhaps I am unfit to inherit, as he says.”

“Lexa!” Clarke takes a hold of her arm, tugging her around to face her, expression drawn with concern. “You are more than fit to inherit! I don’t care what Titus knows about you; no one cares about this place more than you!”

“Oh Clarke,” Lexa’s voice hitches, “if you only knew…”

“It _wouldn’t_ change I feel!” She insists passionately. “You know this land as if it were a part of you, as if the moors were imprinted on your skin! I refuse to believe that you are in any way unfit to look after your family title and all of its responsibilities.”

“Thank you,” Lexa’s eyes are bright with tears and she brings a hand up to touch softly at Clarke’s cheek, “thank you, Clarke.”

\---

The rains come when they are an hour from the manor, but Lexa leads them up into an old farm. The buildings are mostly falling to ruin, but the barn still stands and they slide from their mounts and splash through the puddles, the horse’s hooves clattering against the cobblestones as they are lead through the courtyard. The barn door creaks worryingly, but it clings to its rusty hinges and swings open after a few firm pushes.

Inside it is dark and dank and smells of musty old hay, but it is at least dry and they lead the horses in and let them roam. Clarke settles herself on an old hay bale close to the door, watching the rain fall in great grey sheets along the countryside, and Lexa moves to stand nearby.

“If there’s anything that can be relied upon,” she comments, dryly, “it is the English weather.”

Clarke laughs, nodding and carefully unpeeling her sodden hat from her head, curls of golden hair falling in damp, delicate spirals about her cheeks. “My hair is ridiculous,” she pushes it back self consciously, tugging the braid out of its twist so that it hangs, long and loose, down her back, and Lexa turns to look at her, cheeks flushing when she says.

“I think your hair looks quite lovely.”

Clarke smiles softly and a little shyly, pleasure rippling up through her chest and she pats the spot beside her welcomingly. Lexa settles herself beside her, so close that their knees touch, and Clarke does not flinch away from the contact.

“Would you?” Lexa gestures to her hat, attempting to pull out a few of the pins and Clarke tuts quietly, batting her hands away and carefully extricating the hat from the mass of carefully collected curls. The curls fall away with the hat and Lexa reaches up to keep pulling at pins until the whole thing is tumbling down her back, wet and curly.

“There,” Clarke places Lexa’s hat beside her own, folding her icy hands in her lap and rubbing her fingers over them.

“Are you cold?” Lexa frowns, sliding off her gloves and holding them out in offering even as Clarke shakes her head.

“No, I couldn’t.”

“I don’t need them,” Lexa insists, but when Clarke refuses again she simply takes her hands into her own, folding them up in what little warmth she can provide and holding them.

The touch is so gentle and small and yet so desperately intimate that Clarke’s breath catches in her throat, her eyes fixed to their clasped hands for a moment before she is finally able to drag them up to Lexa’s face. She is much closer than Clarke expected her to be, she can feel Lexa’s breath close to her cheek and jaw and her eyes flicker, unbidden, down to the girl’s soft lips before darting up again to meet her wide, wonderful eyes.

“Thank you,” the words are nothing more than a shaking whisper, as if the grip that love has on her heart is making its way up to her throat.

“Anything.” Lexa’s promise is a murmured breath, “anything at all.”

She cannot help herself. The rain patters against the rooftop and washes in a silvery curtain across the doorway, cloaking them from the world, and Clarke feels a rush of courage and tenderness. She shifts forwards and her lips catch Lexa’s in a soft, sweet kiss. She feels Lexa’s mouth open in surprise before her lips press back for just a moment. Then, suddenly, she has pulled away and Clarke is left reeling in her absence, eyes flickering open to watch as she rushes out into the rain.

“Lexa!” She staggers to her feet, stumbling out into the rain after her. It is hard and heavy and soaks her to the bone in an instant, but she doesn’t stop until she has reached the girl, spinning her around by her arm. “Lexa, please wait!”

Lexa’s eyes are wide with something Clarke can’t place, something between fear and awe and hope, and she does not pull away from Clarke’s grip, staring down at her.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke continues, her words becoming fragmented and fragile as she fights not to cry. “I’m so sorry… I don’t know what I-”

Lexa’s arm snakes around her waist, pulling her so close that she can feel the press of her breasts, and her other hand rises to cradle Clarke’s face, pushing strands of wet hair away tenderly and then she leans in and kisses Clarke with such softness that her breath is snatched from her throat. Clarke’s hands move of their own accord, wrapping around Lexa’s neck and pulling her closer. Their lips are hot in the cold rain, a searing point of light and warmth and they cling to each other as if they will be ripped apart at any moment, fingers grasping, breath catching. Clarke kisses her with all of her might, pressing four months worth of soft touches and half caught glances into the touch of her lips, and when one of her hands skates up and tentative fingers run over Lexa’s jaw, she feels the girl quiver beneath her.

Lexa pulls away just a fraction to gasp for breath, resting her forehead against Clarke’s, their skin slick with rain, and Clarke can’t help the slightly hysterical laugh that bubbles from her throat as she blinks water from her heavy eyelashes.

“What?” Lexa breathes, her thumb brushing the swell of Clarke’s cheek and Clarke shakes her head, trying to tame her wild smile.

“I just… I love you.”

Lexa blinks and her eyes widen, staring at Clarke for a second in amazement. “Y-You do?” She murmurs, finally, a disbelieving breath escaping her even as Clarke nods. “I love you too.”

Clarke lets out a shivering breath and her hands tighten around Lexa’s neck so that she can pull herself up to kiss her again. For once, Lexa is not hesitant or soft; she does not carefully consider her actions. Instead her arms clasp Clarke around the waist and wrap them together so tightly that Clarke knows they will never be truly separated again.

\----

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i basically wrote this whole thing for that kissing in the rain scene. Thank you for reading, let me know below or over on tumblr (@onemilliongoldstars) what you thought!
> 
> (also i have two new multi chapters I'm sitting on, so maybe come tell me whether you'd like to see either of them?)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me guys, I've had an extremely up and down few weeks, both good and bad, so posting a new chapter slid right out of my head. Have an 8k chapter to make up for it!

“You’re very accomplished, Clarke.” The voice startles her so much that the brush falls from her fingers and lands on her apron, leaving a wide green smudge behind it.

She tuts under her breath, collecting the brush and depositing it safely on the table before twisting in her seat to look up at the lady stood behind her. Lexa is soft in the morning light, smiling slightly, the dark blue skirt of her dress brushing against Clarke’s arm, and Clarke momentarily feels her heart shudder at the sight.

“You could have spoilt my painting,” she scolds, grinning, and Lexa bends down to get a closer look at it, peering over her shoulder.

“My sincerest apologies,” she doesn’t sound repentant in the slightest and Clarke rolls her eyes, “it is a beautiful picture.”

“It isn’t finished yet,” Clarke points out, unable to tear her eyes away from the smooth line of Lexa’s jaw and the long curve of her neck.

“It is still beautiful,” Lexa’s voice is soft, and when Clarke turns to tease her, she finds that Lexa is so close that she can smell the delicate lavender soap she had rubbed into her skin only that morning.

Lexa’s eyes flick to meet hers and a small, secret smile tilts her lips, a kiss perched at their corner and Clarke can’t help but stretch forwards and press their lips together in an attempt to catch it. Lexa is still for a second, before her lips move against Clarke’s and her fingers trace over Clarke’s neck and sink into her twisted hair, sliding beneath her cap. Her lips part and Lexa’s lets out a gentle sigh against their kiss, before Clarke reluctantly pulls away.

Lexa is flushed, her pupils blown and a pretty flush is creeping up into her cheeks, but she doesn’t move away as Clarke collects her brush again.

It is a new experience, kissing Lexa, but Clarke finds she cannot stop herself. Lexa is like a fine wine; each time Clarke kisses her, she feels as if her head is spinning and the room is moving beneath her feet and yet the feeling is addicting. She craves it; even the sight of Lexa in the morning, dishevelled and groggy, is not enough to push her away.

Lexa slips away a few paces to sink into the chair beside the desk, collecting letters into her hands. She glances up and catches Clarke’s eyes on her, and her blush darkens.

With a heavy heart, Clarke forces her eyes back to her work, swirling her brush into the carefully selected colours at her side.

“If Mrs Dewry catches me, I expect I shall be thrown from the house with no reference or wages,” She says conversationally, and Lexa scoffs quietly at her side.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lexa tell her, absent minded, “I would never permit such a thing.”

“She may write to your uncle.” Clarke chances another glance, but Lexa only pauses for a brief moment before continuing to slice through an envelope.

“Mr and Mrs Dewry are not under my uncle’s spell; they have known me since I was a child. They would not betray me to him.”

Clarke’s brush stills and she swallows. “So… you know what your uncle is doing? How he is manipulating your service?”

“Of course.” Lexa gives her a wry look, arching an eyebrow skeptically. “I am mistress of my own house, Clarke. Do you not think I know what is going on in it?”

“Then why keep them on?” Clarke demands, setting down her paintbrush again to swing her legs around her chair and face Lexa properly. “Why allow them in your house? Myborn, Darby, any of them?”

“I am not a fool, Clarke; if there were any better way, I would be long rid of them.” Lexa finishes scanning through her letter, setting it to one side and taking up another as she continues, “if I were to be rid of them, Titus would only capture the next collection of people I brought in. At least this way I know who I can trust and who I cannot.”

“Titus is a monster.” She can feel her anger stirring again, like a slumbering beast. “You should not allow him in your company or anywhere near your person.”

“I cannot do that,” Lexa answers succinctly, “I owe Titus for his help when I was younger.”

“Whatever he did when you were younger can’t atone for his crimes to you as an adult- Lexa, he drove you from your own _home_!”

“Clarke, please, I don’t want to talk about Titus any longer.” Lexa gives her a pleading look, breaching the gap between them to grasp one of Clarke’s hands in her own. “I came here to get away from him.”

“Fine.” Clarke turns back to her painting, pouting. After a moment of silently mixing colours she adds, quietly, “I am not under his spell, just so you know.”

“Oh, Clarke.” Lexa’s eyes are tender. “Of course I know. You are far too good to be his.”

Clarke can’t help the smile that stretches her cheeks, and she turns to her painting with a lighter heart. They sit in peaceful silence for some time, broken only by the tick of the clock on the mantlepiece and the whisper of Clarke’s brush against the paper. When Lexa lets out a soft chuckle, Clarke lifts her gaze to watch her smile down at the letter in her hands.

“Letter from an admirer?” She teases softly, and Lexa looks up to give her an exasperated look.

“Hardly. It is a letter from Anya.” She smooths out the paper against the desk. “She reminded me that it is my birthday soon and I am obliged to celebrate.”

“Your birthday?” Clarke’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and she eases herself out of her seat to stand at the back of Lexa’s chair, running her fingers over her shoulder. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I’d rather it not be known, but apparently my uncle has seen to it that I will not be overlooked this year.”

Clarke’s nose wrinkles at the sound of Titus’s name and she runs a hand soothingly down Lexa’s arm. “How so?”

“He has taken it upon himself to organise a ball, here.”

“Here?” Clarke’s mouth drops open, and Lexa twists in her seat to look up at her, fingers rising to interlace with Clarke’s against her shoulder. “When?”

“In a few weeks time. He writes that everything is arranged.” She taps a different letter on the desk and sighs softly. “But Anya writes that she will arrive a week before to try her hand at shooting and help me organise.”

“That’s kind of her.” Clarke tries for a convincing smile, but Lexa only laughs at her attempt.

“She wants the sport and she will be more hindrance than help, but it will be nice to have her here.”

“I suppose we shall soon be overrun with help.” Her heart sinks at the idea, and Lexa clearly senses her drop in mood because her hand snakes around her waist and drags her a step closer until she can press her cheek against Clarke’s stomach.

“Until then, we are blissfully alone,” Lexa soothes her, “and they shall soon be gone.”

\----

The arrival of company is alarming and sudden in the peace of the past few weeks. It has been many weeks since Lexa received unexpected visitors and it feels off to have their peaceful little paradise disturbed. As the lady of the house, however, it is not unusual that Lexa should have callers from the passing gentlemen and it is just such a disturbance which knocks upon their door that sunny afternoon. They are sat on the patio together when Mr Dewry appears at the french doors. Clarke startles up so quickly that she almost knocks over the chair and Lexa’s cheeks are deeply flushed when she turns to nod at Mr Dewry.

The butler doesn’t bat an eyelid at them. “There is a visitor here, my lady.”

“A visitor?” Lexa frowns, eyes flickering to Clarke. “I am not expecting anyone; who could it be?”

“Lord Marcus Kane, my lady.”

“Oh,” Lexa’s eyes light up slightly, lips lifting into a smile. “I didn’t know he was in the country. He and the family usually go to Ireland at this time of year.”

“Shall I show him in?” Mr Dewry asks and at Lexa’s nod, hesitates. “I shall send for Mrs Dewry to act as chaperone, my lady.”

“Don’t be silly, Mr Dewry. Lord Kane will not be any less than polite.”

“Even so, my lady,” Dewry frowns, looking from Lexa to Clarke.

“I can act as chaperone,” Clarke offers and Mr Dewry nods as Lexa smiles.

“Of course, excellent idea. Could you fetch us some tea too please Clarke?”

Clarke nods and hurries after Mr Dewry. She passes through the hall and catches a glance of the man waiting, no older than fifty and with a kind, interesting face, holding his hat in his hands and examining one of the pictures on the wall. He sees her staring and nods, touching a finger to his forehead where his hat should have been and she smiles back.

In the kitchens Mrs Dewry busies herself making up a tray, speaking as she goes.

“Lord Kane is a very nice man. It’s excellent that he’s come to see Lady Alexandria.”

“Do you know him well?” Clarke leans against the kitchen table, watching her with interest. “Her ladyship said he has a family.”

“Yes, he’s the owner of Redbrook Park, a few miles away. Good stock, a good family, slightly below her ladyship but they’ve always been some of our closest neighbours and they’ve known her since she was a girl.” Mrs Dewry bats her away when she tries to steal a cooling bun from the tray before her. “Yes, nice folk indeed.” She hums in satisfaction and nods to the finished tray. “Off you go then.”

Clarke diligently collects the waiting tray, the china trembling against itself in a faint ringing as she walks. Lexa is sat with the man from the hall when she arrives on the patio, talking animatedly, and she pauses to smile at Clarke when she deposits the tray on the wrought iron table at Lexa’s side. Lord Kane steps forward, offering to pour their tea, and Clarke retreats to the French windows to stand out of the way, watching on quietly as Kane offers Lexa a china cup before taking one for himself.

He is a well dressed man, Clarke observes as the pair talk, in a smart coat, a gold and mahogany walking stick propped by his chair. He is kind and respectful towards Lexa, and the pair exchange friendly conversation about their families and mutual friends, the goings on in the village and their respective estates. As pleasant as their conversation is, Clarke stops listening after the first few exchanges, which are filled with names and places she does not know, and her attention only returns when she hears Kane say,

“I saw your uncle when I was recently in London.”

“Oh really?” She can see the tension sliding into Lexa’s shoulders. “How did you find him?”

“Fairly well.” Kane eyes her wryly. “He worries about you, I’m sure you know that.”

“I do,” Lexa responds after a beat of silence, and Kane’s lips purse slightly.

“He informed me that you were back at the estate. I hope I’m not an imposition?”

“Oh, not at all,” Lexa rushes to insist, placing her cup and saucer back on the tray, “I’m sorry Marcus, I should have sent a note-”

“My dear girl,” Kane shakes his head, “don’t worry yourself. I know what it is to want to keep to yourself after a trip to London.”

“Thank you.” Though still strained, Lexa sounds infinitely more relaxed. “How was your time in the city?”

“Excellent.” Kane nods happily, clasping his hands together. “I paid several calls, found out all the latest town gossip through my lovely wife.”

“Really?” Laughter laces through Lexa’s voice. “I’m sure it was all fascinating to you.”

Kane laughs, rolling his eyes at her words, “Yes, just riveting. Although I did learn something rather interesting: did you hear about the Griffin family?”

Clark almost falls over. Her eyes widen with shock and she straightens, staring intently at her feet. Her stomach sinks at Kane’s words, sending dread rushing through her.

“I knew they had arrested Lord and Lady Griffin, although there is no sign of their daughter? Miss Griffin?”

“Miss Griffin seems to have disappeared into the mists,” Kane agrees, “but Lord and Lady Griffin have been released from where they were being held on house arrest.”

“Released?” The word escapes Clarke’s mouth before she can stop herself and both Lexa and Lord Kane turn to stare at her in surprise. A hot, embarrassed flush blossoms over her cheeks and she bows her head. “Sorry, my lady.”

Lexa says nothing, turning back to Kane, and after a moment of quiet Lord Kane continues, his eyes darting uncertainly to Clarke. “Yes, they were released last week. They have been found not guilty and the police have dropped all charges.”

“What changed?” Lexa wonders aloud, “Last I had heard the authorities were certain Lord Griffin was to blame.”

“Letters were found, an exchange between Mr Johnson and one of the leaders of the gangs he was rumoured to be connected with.”

“What was in them?”

“The exact contents aren’t suitable for certain company,” Lord Kane frowns, “but from what I hear, my dear, they were of a very violent and disagreeable nature, apparently the two men set up a duel.”

“So it was the gang leader who killed Mr Johnson?”

“So it seems,” Kane hums in agreement. “And Lord Griffin met with him the day before and saw how agitated he was. Apparently he was very close to working out what had actually happened.”

“That would explain why the London gangs seemed so set on assassinating the family.” Clarke’s heart is thudding so hard in her chest that she almost misses Lexa’s next words. She remembers Mr Johnson’s visit–yet another stuffy old man in her father’s study–and his quiet and reserve in the days after the politician’s murder. It feels as if everything is clicking perfectly into place. “Are the family safe now?”

“Safer than they have ever been, I expect,” Kane almost smiles, “with the amount of police that have been assigned to watch their home.”

“I am glad to know that they are innocent,” Lexa muses, “I always liked Lord Griffin, though we only met once. We exchanged several letters.”

“Yes, I believe he’s a fine gentleman. At least now he will have a good story to tell at parties.” Kane laughs. “The only problem is finding their daughter.”

“They have no idea where she is?” Clarke feels her stomach swoop again and the blood in her veins runs cold.

“No, it seems Miss Griffin has simply… vanished.”

\---

“Clarke?” Lexa’s voice is soft and slightly slurred from beside her. They are sat together on the settee in Lexa’s bedroom, pulled up close to the fire to keep warm. Clarke’s feet are curled up beneath herself and Lexa’s head is resting so close to her shoulder that she swears she can feel the heat of her skin. Mr and Mrs Dewry are long gone and the night sky is dark outside, clear and peppered with the silver lights of stars.

“Hmm?” Clarke turns so that she can glance at Lexa from beneath her eyelashes. The girl’s skin glows in the hazy candlelight and dark ringlets fall temptingly down her neck and across her cheeks. The night feels warm and safe and soft, though that could be attributed to the empty decanter of wine before them that makes Clarke feel as if her head is stuffed with cotton.

“Have you ever been to a ball?” Lexa rolls her head around where it is resting against the back of the settee, her eyes wide and openly curious.

Clarke swallows, considering her words for a moment. “Not really; there were dances in the village I grew up in, but I’m not sure you would count those.”

“I’m sure they were more fun than the dances I grew up going to.” Lexa laughs softly, a slice of bitterness cutting through her words.

“You don’t like dances?” Clarke shifts in her place, twisting her body until she is facing Lexa properly.

A flush creeps up Lexa’s cheeks. “I don’t like _dancing_ ,” she corrects her. “I’m not… good at it.”

“Surely your parents had you taught when you were younger?” Clarke’s brows furrow.

“Yes,” Lexa is fidgeting uncomfortably now, unable to meet her gaze. “But I was not a very… attentive student. Not during dance lessons at least. Now I feel ridiculous when I try to dance, as if I am sure to make a fool out of myself.”

“I’m sure you can’t be that bad,” Clarke can’t help the small, tender smile that she gives Lexa, even as the girl pouts. “Here, maybe I can help.”

She swings her feet off the settee, standing and holding out a hand to Lexa, who is still perched elegantly, watching her with amusement.

“You want me to dance with you?” Lexa cocks an eyebrow, shaking her head. “I could never risk your affections that way, Clarke.”

She lets out a soft laugh, rolling her eyes at the obstinate girl as she leans forwards to take her hand and tug her unwillingly to her feet. “Stop it; you could never risk my affections. Now,” taking both of Lexa’s hands in hers, she guides one to her shoulder and brings the other up before them. Then, she slowly wraps a hand around Lexa’s waist to draw her closer. Her fingers splay out and run over demure, silk covered buttons and the traitorous criss cross of the laces that she knows lie beneath them and she feels her heart catch in her throat. Clarke’s eyes flicker up and she catches Lexa’s stunned gaze, her parted lips and feels herself struggle against leaning forwards to kiss her soundly.

“You’re being the man?” Lexa finally breathes and then seems to cringe at her own asinine commentary.

Clarke smiles tenderly again, “I cannot teach you to lead, can I? What would the gentleman say?”

“What indeed?” Lexa’s lets out a shuddering breath and draws her eyes from where they have been securely fixed to a spot just over Clarke’s shoulder to look her in the eye. “So?”

“You have to learn to relax,” Clarke gently runs the hand around her waist up and down her back and feels the wound muscles beneath her touch slowly unravel. “Much better. Dancing is about… flow.”

“We don’t have any music,” Lexa points out and Clarke grins.

“We won’t need it.”

Carefully, she draws Lexa a little closer, until they are so close that they are nearly pressed together and she feels Lexa shiver.

“Now… move your feet… backwards, then to the side, then together.” She mirrors the movement until they have fumblingly completed the first step and smiles up at Lexa, who is staring at their feet with a furrowed brow. “Now again, the other way, forwards, then to the side, then together.” Lexa haltingly follows her lead. “Then do it again.” They complete the six steps again as Lexa watches her slippered feet with frightening focus and Clarke attempts to keep herself from feeling like a complete fool by saying, hurriedly. “Now that we know the basic waltz step, we can move with it.”

She steps back, curving her right foot around to allow them to move away from the fire before she brings her left foot to join it. Lexa does not let go of her, but her feet do not move until she is forced to stumble along with Clarke’s body.

“You can do it,” Clarke encourages, “just follow me, so when I bring my left foot backwards, your right comes forwards and vice versa.”

She begins to lead them in a circle, but Lexa’s eyes are so focused on her feet that she stumbles and falls headlong into Clarke, almost sending them both crashing to the floor. Clarke lets out a soft cry of surprise, but her arms wind tightly around Lexa’s waist to keep them both upright and Lexa struggles away from her after a moment frozen in surprise. Hot shame is colouring her cheeks and Clarke reaches out to grab her hand and draw her back towards her, before Lexa can rush away.

“Hey, don’t worry,” she lets Lexa bury her face into the crook of her neck and runs a soothing hand down her hair. “It takes time to get it.”

“Why do I even need to learn this?” Lexa grumbles, cheeks still flushed with embarrassment.

“Because your uncle is throwing you a ball for your 21st birthday,” Clarke points out, unapologetically and Lexa’s arms loosen their hold on her slightly so that she can lean back in her embrace. “Do you know what might help?” She says softly, after a second of silence. Lexa glumly shakes her head. “Looking at me,” she fits her fingers beneath Lexa’s chin and tilts her face up until their eyes meet.

“But…” Lexa’s gaze darts down anxiously, before shooting back to Clarke’s.

“It’s not about the steps, not really.” Clarke drops her hand back down to Lexa’s waist, running over the thick material of her dress, the layers of petticoats beneath it and the soft, feminine flair. “It’s about trusting me. Do you?”

“Of course.” Lexa is so close that she can feel her breath warm against the skin of her neck, fluttering against the yoke of her dress.

“Then let’s dance.”

With Lexa’s eyes fixed to hers, Clarke guides them in a slow, careful circle, her arms pulling Lexa in so closely that she has no choice but to follow each step. They move fluidly, their steps going from halting and uncertain to graceful. Clarke feels Lexa soften as she relaxes within her arms and smiles down at her. Giddy joy slides through her like bubbles in champagne and she feels transfixed by the tentative, curious smile that Lexa gives her.

“What?” She asks at last, still grinning.

“You're smiling,” Lexa quirks an eyebrow. “Even though I'm likely to stand on your foot at any second.”

“I like dancing,” Clarke retorts, then adds, “especially with a beautiful partner.”

The comment has the desired effect: Lexa flushes hotly and cannot meet her gaze for a moment. “You dance very well,” she compliments at last, “and speak very boldly.”

“I find that speaking boldly tends to get me what I want.” Clarke spins them in a tight circle and Lexa’s fingers curl up to clutch at the back of her neck.

“How fortunate you are,” Lexa speaks quietly, almost distractedly for a second. “Where did you learn to waltz? I don't think it's known for being common at village dances.”

A flurry of panic bursts her bubbles of happiness momentarily, before she regains her wits enough to answer with a sly smile. “A girl needs her secrets.”

Lexa eyes her curiously again. “Indeed, you know so much about my life and yet to me your past is still a mystery.”

“Is it not part of my charm?” She enquires softly and Lexa opens her mouth to respond when their feet tangle together again and they stumble back, falling in a heap across the bed, giggling madly.

Lexa’s head is heavy against her shoulder, their legs tangled and Clarke’s arm is trapped beneath Lexa’s slight weight. She doesn’t attempt to move, even when Lexa heaves herself up a little to look down at Clarke through the soft firelight. Laughter lingers in her eyes, her lips are still stretched into a smile and Clarke can’t help but lift a hand to brush back the strand of stray hair that’s fallen across her cheek. Lexa’s eyes widen slightly and flicker from her eyes to her lips and back again. Clarke barely has time to suck in a surprised breath before she reels forwards, pressing their lips together. Clarke lets out the softest sound against the kiss, but when Lexa tries to pull away, concerned, she winds her arms around the girl’s trim waist and holds her close.

Lexa’s lips are soft and she tastes of wine and sweetmeats. Her nose brushes against Clarke’s, the smallest and most intimate of touches and she wriggles one arm out of Clarke’s close embrace to slide her fingers along Clarke’s chin and trace the path over her cheekbone, cradling her. Clarke feels engulfed by Lexa, surrounded by her, almost overwhelmed and it’s only when Lexa pulls back and asks, anxiously, “what’s wrong?” that she realises a few tears have rolled down her cheeks.

Lexa wipes them away before she can, the tender brush of her thumb sending love swelling through Clarke’s chest and Clarke heaves in a shuddering breath.

When she speaks, her voice shakes just slightly. “I just… I love you.”

Lexa’s brows crinkle slightly and she frowns down at Clarke, still running soothing fingers along her face. “I love you too, what’s wrong?”

Clarke struggles against her words, against the flow of honesty bearing up against her teeth. “Do you ever feel as if the world is against us?” She whispers at last, running a hand up Lexa’s back and enjoying the slight shiver it sends through the girl’s spine.

“Sometimes,” Lexa admits, still frowning worriedly. “But after we get through this ball everyone will leave and we will return to normal. We’re safe here Clarke, and we can be… forever if we want.”

“How can you be so sure?” She feels almost sick with the lies coating her stomach and throat, her hands are hot against Lexa’s skin and her heart is racing.

She must look as frantic as she feels because Lexa hums quietly and draws her eyes up with a soft kiss to her nose. “Because I love you Clarke, most ardently, the sort of love that stories are made of, the sort that can’t be denied.”

Tears well in her throat against, swirling with her nausea and it’s suddenly all she can do to pull Lexa back to her lips again, fearing that she will see the dark truths hidden behind her eyes.

\---

Anya arrives in a flurry of excitement and activity. With her come three new maids, the first of a whole battalion Lexa assures her, to help air out the rooms in preparation for the ball and Anya watches them scurry about the place with a sneer and wafts them away when they attempt to help her. Lexa offers Clarke’s services as a lady’s maid, but her cousin laughs her away and Clarke shares a small, secret smile with Lexa.

With Anya’s arrival their time together suddenly diminishes. Mr and Mrs Dewry may have turned a blind eye, but the new maids certainly do not and Clarke is obliged to unstick herself from Lexa’s side and help them when Lexa does not need her. For her part, Lexa is suddenly greatly occupied with the ball, fielding letters and visitors and giving instruction and direction to the new help. When the ball is not consuming her time, Lexa is with Anya; they spend the day together, go out together and eat together, and Clarke is once more relegated to meals in the kitchen with the new maids, who watch her from the corners of their eyes but do not address her.

It would be an abruptly lonely life if she was not then able to trudge up the servants’ stairs, slip in Lexa’s room and be greeted by a fire and a warm smile. Slowly, she and Lexa undress each other, stealing a kiss or a touch, and when they are in their nightgowns they have taken to sliding into bed together, heads close, arms entwined.

“How was your day?” Clarke asks quietly one night, as she unbuttons the back of Lexa’s dress.

“Enjoyable, thank you.” Lexa reaches back to help her with the final few buttons and then slides her arms from the sleeves. “Anya made me take her shooting.”

Clarke laughs softly, drawing the dress down over her hips until it lands in a puddle on the floor. “Was she dangerous?”

“She is actually a worryingly good shot.” Lexa steps out of the dress and pulls a few pins from her hair. It unwinds in a heavy dark tangle across her shoulders. “She has been spending hours in the library. I’m slightly worried about her.”

“That doesn’t sound in character.” Clarke tosses a smile over her shoulder, folding the dress and draping it over a chair to launder the next day. She pauses for a moment, watching affectionately as Lexa begins to run her fingers through her hair, golden green eyes creasing when she encounters tangles. “Here,” she grasps a brush from the table and ushers Lexa onto the bed, perching behind her to run the brush through her hair.

“Thank you.” Lexa’s fingers slide over Clarke’s idle hand and bring it to her lips to press a soft kiss to it. “And yes, it is very out of character for Anya. Tomorrow she has errands she wants to run in town, but I am not required to accompany her.”

“She does not want you there?” Clarke’s hands hesitate over silky dark hair, but Lexa only shrugs.

“It appears not.” She gently pries herself away from Clarke’s brushing, twisting so that they are face to face and Clarke can see the soft golden light flooding across her cheeks from the fireplace. “Which means I have all morning to entertain myself.”

“Really?” Clarke’s eyes brighten and she smiles. “You have no other duties to see to?”

“None that can’t wait a morning,” Lexa assures her, reaching out to brush a touch to her cheek. “And I expect I will have great need of my lady’s maid.”

“You think so?” Clarke can feel the heat spreading to her cheeks, the smile that she can’t help lifting her lips and brings her hand up to trace Lexa’s fingers against her cheek.

“Indeed,” Lexa leans forwards and when their lips press together Clarke feels as if her feet may never touch the earth again.

\---

The night of the ball looms like a shadow, distant and ignored for so long that when it suddenly appears to cast them into darkness Clarke is almost startled. Lexa is nervous for the impending social niceties and from the unexpected arrival of her uncle the night before, and Clarke runs a hand down her shoulder, hoping to soothe her as Lexa looks between jewellery choices on the dressing table before her. Her hair has been piled elegantly behind her head, pinned into a beautiful nest of dark curls studded with diamonds and emeralds and Clarke leans over her shoulder to gesture to the golden pendant on the dressing table.

“I think that one would work the best.”

“You do?” Lexa turns to look at her, eyes wide with uncertainty and Clarke smiles, nodding and pressing a reassuring kiss to her cheek.

“You’ll look beautiful.” She takes the necklace in hand, fingers brushing against the delicate skin at the back of Lexa’s neck to fasten to clasp.

Lexa catches her eye in the mirror. “I’m nervous.” She admits, quietly.

“That’s alright, but you have no need to be.” Clarke’s hands slide over her shoulders again and she smiles. “I promise, this will go well.”

She holds out a hand and helps Lexa stand in her tight corsets, leading her to the end of the bed. They both turn to gaze at the gown spread out across it, a mass of green silk, with a trim of golden lace and golden beads embroidered down the skirt.

“Shall we?” Clarke gives her a small smile of solidarity and at Lexa’s unsteady nod, takes the dress into her arms and begins to help Lexa into it.

It is a long process, with many tangled limbs and missed buttons, but when Clarke is finally able to step back and admire her, Lexa looks resplendent. The colour of the silk brings out her eyes, they seem to glow from beneath dark lashes, and the golden necklace sits high on her throat, the green pendant nestling into her collarbones. She runs anxious hands down the skirt, which flows downwards into an elegantly draped train, patterned with detailed, intricate golden embroidery and Clarke can’t help but cross the space between them and place a kiss to Lexa’s lips.

Lexa’s hands wind around her waist, holding her close even after they break away to catch their breath and she stares down at her, surprised and pleased.

“What was that for?”

“I just…” Clarke’s eyes flicker down to the magnificent dress and then back to the wide, uncertain gaze fixed on her and she shakes her head, dazed. “You have no idea how beautiful you are.”

Lexa’s cheeks heat at the words and she smiles bashfully, sliding out of Clarke’s grasp. “I am not beautiful, _you_ are beautiful.” She slides the pair of long white gloves waiting for her over her fingers. “I have something for you.”

“For me?” Clarke’s brows furrow and she follows a step behind when Lexa leads her to the hanging cupboard in the corner of the room and opens it to reveal another gown, sky blue taffeta embroidered with pink roses, trimmed with lace and blushed velvet, a sinking neckline and slight sleeves, easily one of the most beautiful dresses Clarke has ever seen.

“I wanted you to wear this.” Lexa steps back to allow her a closer look and Clarke edges closer, reaching out a hand to touch hesitantly at one of the velvet roses on the sleeve.

“Wear it? Where?” She can’t quite tear her eyes away from the gown long enough to look at Lexa.

“Tonight.” The word gets her attention and she turns, blinking to clear the fog from her mind.

“Tonight?” She echoes and Lexa smiles anxiously.

“I would like for you to be there, if you want to. No one will question it, you may sink into the background, enjoy the music and the food, dance.”

“Lexa… I can’t... “ her heart stutters at the thought of the ballroom, filled with the aristocracy of the country, but Lexa takes her hand ever so gently and her fears flee her. “It’s not my place,” she tries, weakly.

“Clarke,” Lexa’s eyes are wide and sincere, “there is nothing I want more than to be with you tonight, on my birthday. Please… come to the ball.”

She is rendered breathless by Lexa’s earnest pleas, and she can only hesitate for so long in the face of her kindness.

“Alright, I will.”

“Oh, Clarke!” Lexa’s hands wind around her waist again and she giggles, sliding her arms around Lexa’s neck to keep them from falling. “Thank you!” Lexa kisses her, chaste and joyful and when she pulls back her eyes are shining.

It is only when Lexa has gone downstairs to greet her guests that Clarke finds a pair of white silk gloves, a white lace fan and the silver and sapphire hair pin she had been admiring in Polis weeks before laid out on a shelf below the dress.

\---

Clarke’s dancing shoes, soft leather and a fine heel, click against the wood of the servant’s stairs as she hurries down them. She feels odd in her attire, strangely out of place; though she had grown up in similarly beautiful gowns, she suddenly longs for the feeling of plain, dark cotton and the comforting support of a crisp muslin apron. The dress, while beautiful, is heavy and confining and though she had tried to fashion her hair into something respectable, stray curls still escape to tickle her cheeks and neck. Her fingers, in white gloves, trail along the whitewashed wall of the servant’s quarters and when she turns a corner she nearly runs straight into Octavia, who has a pile of linens in her arms.

She stops short, eyes widening and mouth dropping open and her friend blinks at her for a moment.

“Clarke?”

“Octavia!”

They close the gap separating them and pull their arms around each other, crushing the linens that Octavia clutches to her chest.

“What are you doing here?” Clarke asks, unable to stop her smile, “I didn’t know you had come.”

“I arrived this afternoon, a few of the maids from town have taken ill with the pox and they needed somebody, so I caught the morning train.” Octavia takes a halting step back to stare at her ensemble, mouth gaping as she touches at the velvet trimming. “What…?” She gestures wordlessly, and Clarke can feel the heat rising to her cheeks.

“Lexa wanted me to be at the ball,” She explains lamely after a moment of hesitation, and Octavia’s brows shoot up. “To assist her, if she needed me.”

“Assist her dressed like _that_?” Octavia gestures again, a bit more wildly and the linens almost fly from her arms.

“Yes… well…” she stumbles over her words, her flush darkening and Octavia takes pity on her.

“Clarke, what will you do if someone recognises you? There’s a whole hall filled with landed gentry out there!”

She chews anxiously on her lip, “I know, but I saw the guest list when Lexa was sending out letters and there is no one too close to the family on it, barely any names I recognised.”

The pounding of feet comes from upstairs, descending rapidly and they both twist to stare upwards.

“You should go; if anyone else sees you like this, they’re sure to stop you going!” Octavia ushers her down the final few steps and through the door, all but pushing her out into the great hall.

Clarke stumbles a few steps forwards, before finally regaining her footing and instantly pressing herself back into the wall to make space for the footmen carrying silver trays filled with sparkling champagne flutes high in the air. She steadies herself against the wood panelling and her eyes, wide and flustered, swivel around the room to take in the mass of bodies crowding the edges. The room is a filled with colour, the bright flash of ladies’ dresses offset by crisp, dark suits; diamonds adorn every waving hand and fans are fluttered. Excited chatter rises up to the high ceiling and the usually dark, sombre room is illuminated by hundreds of candles and filled with large vases of flowers. Footmen swoop through the room, silver trays filled with crystal glasses and a string band is playing lilting, gentle music from a small platform set up close to the empty fireplace.

Clarke scans the faces of those closest to her and recognises none of them. Hesitantly, she edges away from the wall and leans up on her toes to catch a glimpse of the couples twirling in the middle of the hall.

Her eyes continue to search and unerringly find the only person in the room that she really cares about. Lexa is stood to the edge of a large crowd of people, watching the dancing with a fond smile and making polite small talk with the people around her. Lady Anya and Lord Titus stand close by and occasionally the former will lean over to whisper something in Lexa’s ear that Clarke suspects is less than appropriate judging by the way Lexa bites back her laughter. Lord Titus watches her from the corner of his eye and occasionally nudges her into adding a new partner to her dance card.

Lexa's eyes meet hers across the dance floor and she smiles widely, her eyes lighting up like a shooting star as the song ends and the dancers take a moment to applaud the musicians. Clarke gives her a shy smile in return, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and Lexa begins to untangle herself from her group of admirers when a figure suddenly steps between them. Clarke brows crease and she slips between quietly talking people to get to the front of the small gathering and watch the gentleman point to Lexa’s dance card and then hold out a hand invitingly. Lexa’s cringe lasts for only a moment before she gives a gracious smile and allows him to lead her away towards the dance floor.

“Please, don't be perturbed my lady.” The voice from beside her makes her startle and she turns to see a tall young man, light haired and smiling, looking down at her. “A beautiful woman like you must have plenty of opportunities to dance.”

She flushes slightly at his boldness, “you're actually the first man to ask me.”

“Really?” His brows shoot up and a mischievous smile lights up his eyes. “Then may I have the honour of this dance?” He gives a flourishing bow and holds out a hand and Clarke can't help but laugh at his antics, happily sliding her fingers over his and allowing him to lead her out to dance.

His hand slides around her waist and he gives her a winning smile as the music begins, leading her around the dance floor. He is handsome and quick footed, though rather forward and she finds that she would be enjoying herself were it not for the green eyes watching her over another dark shoulder. Lexa's dancer is far less elegant than Clarke’s and she looks intensely uncomfortable in the face of his attentions, but when their eyes meet she manages a small smile. The music swells and they swing around the dance floor. Their eyes seek each other out at every turn and Clarke’s fingers itch to slide around a smaller waist and into silky dark hair. If she tries she can forget the man before her is there and imagine Lexa in his place.

The dance finishes too soon and yet not soon enough at the same time. Clarke gives her partner a polite smile, but hurriedly excuses herself and follows Lexa where she is disappearing into the crowds.

“Clarke,” a hand slides around her wrist, pulling her into the safety of the gloom behind one of the tall columns edging the room and she loses her footing, stumbling into Lexa. Two strong arms circle her waist, pressing her close against the girl’s body and her palms come to rest against Lexa’s chest, steadying herself. Her breath is stolen from her throat and when she looks up to meet glowing green eyes and a small, half smile, she has to pull herself forcibly away so as to stop herself from kissing Lexa. “You came,” Lexa breathes, her fingers trailing away from Clarke’s waist like the curl of smoke rising from a blown out candle.

“You asked me to,” she can hardly stand to be so close to Lexa in the glow of the candle light, it feels far too intimate for the eyes she is sure are fastened to them.

“I still wasn’t sure…” Lexa’s eyes dart to the other guests and Clarke swallows, reaching out to pluck two flutes from a passing footman, pressing one into Lexa’s hands.

“You wanted me here,” she tells her firmly, “so here I am.”

“Thank you,” Lexa’s fingers reach out, disguised in their full skirts, and tangle with Clarke’s. “You look beautiful.”

Clarke smiles, unable to help the flow of joy that runs through her chest like a wave, “thank you, so do you.”

Lexa smiles at her, quiet for a moment, as if she can’t stand to tear her eyes away and Clarke squeezes her fingers gently, opening her mouth to tease before she is interrupted by the sudden arrival of Lady Anya.

She comes to a halt a few steps away from them, eyeing Clarke with surprise but refraining from comment. “Lexa, Marcus Kane is here. He brought a guest and Titus is beside himself, you may want to smooth the situation out.”

“Oh,” Lexa’s fingers fall from Clarke’s and her eyes dart from her sister to the girl beside her, before she nods reluctantly. “I suppose I ought to, Marcus is too dear to us to have Titus run him from the property with hounds.”

A ghost of a grin tilts at Lady Anya’s lips and she nods, gesturing for Lexa to follow her.

Lexa takes a step away and then hesitates, turning back to Clarke as if yearning to stay with her.

“I’ll be close by,” Clarke promises and watches her go with an ache in her heart. Taking a long sip from her champagne, she edges out of their quiet nook and back into the crowds. People move like the tide, shifting automatically from one small group to the next and Clarke is happily unbothered as she moves through the ballroom, smiling at those who nod their head in her direction. She is unknown here, a foreign entity and shrinks into the crowd, hidden behind quivering fans, elaborate curls and silk ruffles, at least until she hears the shout of her name.

“Clarke!”

Her heart almost stops at the sound and she freezes in place. She can hear the blood thumping past her ears, her palms breaking out into a cold sweat as the hair on the back of her neck rises. Eyes scanning the room, she searches frantically for the source as her name is called again. The people around her are beginning to pause and turn to look, eyes creasing unsurely and she can feel their gazes burning into her skin like the press of a hot iron.

“Clarke!”

She spins, searching and her dress twists around her, skirts catching underneath themselves. Impatiently, she tugs them free, hands reaching to yank at the taffeta and in the second her eyes are averted she is almost bowled over by a heavy body colliding into hers and arms wrapping around her shoulders.

“Wells?” She mumbles into the arm half obscuring her face and Wells’ laughter is loud and joyful in her ear. Her friend pulls back enough to look her in the eye and suddenly he is there, joyful smile, sparkling eyes, cropped hair: exactly as she remembers him.

“Oh Clarke,” he holds her by the shoulders, stares at her in amazement and she is so overwhelmed that her throat goes suddenly tight when he says, roughly. “I missed you so.”

“I missed you too,” she squeezes his hands where they rest on her shoulders. “So much, my friend.”

“You look so well!” He laughs again, clearly delighted and takes a glass from a nearby tray to clink with hers, “oh darling, you’re absolutely beautiful. And here I am worrying I’ll eventually find you holed up in some town house or hotel in the north somewhere, indeed _no_ , you’ve been taking in the society in the north!”

“Y-yes,” Clarke is aware, abruptly, of the eyes watching them and of Titus’s enraged expression as he crosses the hall to where they wait. “Wells, please, let’s talk in private.”

“Oh no Clarke, I must have the honour of a dance before we exchange our tales.” Wells clasps their hands together between them and then Lord Titus is upon them before she can entreat her friend away.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Titus seems as if a thunder cloud has descended around his shoulders, cheeks blazing red in his fury. “What are you doing up here?” He demands of Clarke and reaches out if to shake her. Clarke can see Wells’ frown and flounders for some sort of explanation that will not horrify her friend and humiliate Lexa before the whole ballroom, when Lexa appears as if from thin air.

“What-?” Wells steps forwards, frown deepening when Lexa glides between the waiting company.

“Forgive my uncle,” she places a placating hand on Titus’s shoulder, but Clarke can see the way her fingers dig into his skin. “He was hoping to present Lady Clarke later in the night, as a sort of surprise, but I tempted her downstairs earlier.”

“A surprise?” Wells’s expression clears almost instantly, innocent eyes turning to Lexa to smile curiously. “How so, Lady Alexandria?”

“Well, not many people are privy to the presence of Lady Clarke Griffin in our midst, with the re-entry of her family into society we thought that tonight may be a suitable and safe way of presenting her.” Lexa speaks smoothly, a wan, polite smile on her face and Lord Marcus appears at her shoulder, smiling uncomfortably.

“I’m afraid it may be my fault that your surprise is ruined then, as it was I who brought Wells along.”

“Oh no!” Wells shakes his head passionately, “it is all my doing! I’m ever so sorry, Lady Alexandria.”

“Don’t fret, please,” Lexa refuses to meet Clarke’s gaze, her eyes fixed to either Wells or a spot on the wall just past Clarke’s shoulder. “Perhaps instead we could celebrate with a dance?”

“I have just offered my hand to Clarke,” Wells admits, “though I fear it should have been yours first, as this is your birthday?”

“Nonsense,” Lexa shakes away his apologies, smile still firmly in place, “you are reunited at last, I could not possibly stand in the way. I’m sure Lord Marcus will offer me his hand if I ask him very nicely. Besides,” her eyes finally fall to Clarke and she can see the flash of fear and hurt and betrayal running through them before her smile is firmly back in place. “Lady Clarke is a far better dancer than I could ever hope to be.”

\---

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought below or over on tumblr (@onemilliongoldstars)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for the wait! hopefully this finale gives us all some closure to this fic!

Clarke finds herself passed from partner to partner, the gentlemen in the room are abruptly interested in her and the ladies send her dark looks from the corners of their eyes as their dance cards go unclaimed. She pries herself away from the fifth gentleman the moment their dance ends and slips away into the deserted library. Pressing the door shut quietly behind her, she leans back against it and heaves in a deep, shaking breath.

Movement to her left startles her so much that she stumbles forwards away from the door, her head darting around to stare at the shadowy figure standing from one of the deep chairs around the fireplace. They step forward into the dim light of the gas lamp glowing on the mantelpiece and Clarke feels her heart clench at the rustle of a gown. Lexa’s face comes into view and she is so quiet, so sombre and still that Clarke feels frozen into place.

Lexa looks at her for a moment, lips parted, eyes wide as if she is about to speak. Her hands are clenched tightly in front of her, fingers twisting and intertwined and Clarke longs to go to her. Then her lips thin and her jaw clenches and Clarke watches as Lady Alexandria slams into place.

“Lady Clarke, I didn’t expect you in here.” She sounds so cold that Clarke flinches.

“How did you know?” Her voice is flat and hopeless, even to her own ears and in the darkness she sees Lexa swallow heavily.

“It wasn’t much of a jump… my conversation with Marcus came to mind and I remembered that Mr. Jaha has a close acquaintance with the Griffin family. Considering how little you ever told me about yourself, it only took a moment to piece together.”  

“Lexa, please-” The desperation bubbles up in her throat, tasting suspiciously like tears, but Lexa cuts through her.

“I should apologise,” Lexa’s eyes slide away and she brushes two hands down her dress as if desperate for any sort of distraction, “for any offence I may have caused in our time together.”

“Lexa, please let me explain.” She takes a hesitant step towards her and stills when Lexa recoils back.

“I’d really rather that you didn’t.” Lexa purses her lips, barely able to meet Clarke’s eyes. “I understand, you had your own safety to think of.”

“But it was more than that!” Clarke surges forwards again, crossing the room in a few steps. “You and I-“

“We should not see each other again,” Lexa cuts through her sharply.

“ _What_? No, Lexa, if you understand as you say we can at least remain friends!”

Lexa drags in a breath, shying away when Clarke attempts to touch her again. “ _No_ ,” Clarke cannot ignore the shake in her voice, “no, it’s too hard.” She takes a steadying breath and finally manages to drag her eyes up to meet Clarke’s. “This may have been nothing more than a _dalliance_ to you, but I cannot stand by to watch you marry-“

“Who says I have to _marry_?” Clarke’s chest is heaving, her voice rising, “and this was not a _dalliance_ to me, Lexa!”

“Well, your fiancé is here!” Lexa’s composure finally cracks, “perhaps you should return to _him,_ Clarke.”

“Fiancé?” Clarke demands, furiously. “Who- _oh_ , Wells?” At Lexa’s stiff nod she almost laughs, “Wells is not my fiancé, Lexa, he’s been my best friend since I was a child!”

Lexa’s expression clears, shifting to perplexed confusion and she swallows, “Oh, I see.”

“Yes, you see,” Clarke breaches the space between them again hesitantly and takes heart when Lexa does not flinch away. “You have been jumping to assumptions my love,” her fingers reach out and catch Lexa’s, threading them together carefully. “This was not a dalliance to me. I came to you because I had to stay safe but l did not expect… to feel this way.”

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” Lexa’s fingers tighten around hers and there is a breathy, frightened quality to her voice. “Did you not trust me?”

“Of course I did, but I knew that if I told you it would change things and I… I could not accept that.”

“But you’re to be a countess,” Lexa runs a hand over her eyes, laughing almost hysterically, “and you have been doing my laundry and lacing my corsets.”

“It was what I needed, at the time, to be safe. Please,” she tugs Lexa closer by their clasped hands. “Do not feel as if you have done something wrong.”

“You… are not engaged to be married?” Lexa hesitates uncertainly and continues when Clarke shakes her head. “And… you did love me?”

“I love you still,” she places her fingers on Lexa’s waist and when Lexa’s hands trace up her arms to lace around her neck she feels a rush of warmth and relief. “I think I will for the rest of my life.”

When Lexa veers forwards to press their lips together, Clarke can taste the lingering salt of tears and crushes the girl against her chest, clasping her close. Their noses brush and Clarke feels fingers thread up into her curls, brushing soft circles at the nape of her neck as their lips brush tenderly together.

“Alexandria!”

They startle apart from one another, lips swollen and skirts rustling and Clarke twists to see Titus stood in the doorway, letting in a flood of golden light from the ballroom. His face is twisted with fury and he rushes towards them, pushing Clarke away with a careless hand when she tries to step in front of Lexa. He grabs his niece by the arm, shaking her, and Lexa yanks herself out of his grip, scowling.

“How could you allow this to happen again?” He snarls, rounding on Clarke, “You allow yourself to be seduced by yet another lying harlot, put our family at risk _once again_.”

“How dare you?” Clarke demands, as Lexa turns on her uncle.

“You will not say such things about Clarke! We love one another!”

“ _Love_ ,” Titus spits the word out as if it is a curse, “where has that gotten you before?”

“Before?” Clarke’s brows twitch together, “what happened?” She glares at Titus, “what did you _do_?”

“I saved her reputation!” He returns, furiously, “when she was enamoured with that doctor’s daughter from the village! I helped the girl to disappear, but I _warned you_ that I would not tolerate this sinfulness once again.”

“What ever is going on?” Anya’s voice startles them all and they turn to watch her slam the door shut behind her. “You’re causing a commotion Titus.”

“Your _cousin_ has once again fallen into her wicked ways!” Titus brandishes his finger in Lexa’s direction. “I told you there would be consequences if you did this again, the world will know and you will be disinherited!”

“You can’t do that!” Clarke cries, pushing forwards as if to hit the man, though Lexa’s arm around her waist restrains her.

The girl is stony faced, hard and cold. “Do what you will,” she tells her uncle, flatly, “I am done being a pawn in your games and I will not allow you to drive away Clarke as you did Costia.”

“I will stand against you!” Clarke rales angrily. “I will turn every noble family in the south against you, I swear!”

“Come uncle, this seems something of an overreaction,” Anya sounds disturbingly calm, “It is simply a matter of who Lexa gives her heart to, nothing too exciting about that.”

“She is a monster,” Titus spits, “touched by the devil.”

He makes to rush from the room, but Anya holds out a hand to smack him firmly in the chest, pushing him back.

“I would hold on, if I were you.” She goes to the desk in the corner and digs through the pile of papers covering it until she comes up with a faded old piece of paper and a stack of neatly bound letters. “I’ve been doing some research and I have found the next heir.”

“Well,” Titus sounds suddenly uncertain. “I’m sure the estate will fall to one of Alexandria’s cousins.”

“Actually no,” Anya pushes the piece of paper into his hands, “this is Lord Woods’s will. He says that if for some reason Lexa isn’t able to inherit the estate is to be sold off to locals and tenants, at low rates and the proceeds are to go to the transformation of the house into a school for bright children from local villages.”

“What?” Lexa’s eyes are wide in the dim light of the lamp and she edges past Clarke to take the paper from Anya’s hands, eyes darting back and forth as she reads.

“I have been corresponding with the Mr Jones, the family lawyer who oversaw the will and he assures me there are no loopholes. The will is very clear, Lexa was the only person he trusted with the estate.” Anya offers her a small smile and Lexa’s eyes well. She relinquishes the will into Titus’s grabbing hands and Clarke rubs soothingly up her back, unable to help her smile.

“I told you your father would be proud.” She murmurs and Lexa’s breathing hitches as she tries to blink away her tears.

“This cannot be right,” Titus sounds aghast and Anya makes no effort to disguise her grin when she waves the letters in her hands.

“It is completely legal, you can read these if you want.” Titus does not even reach for the letters, his widened eyes swinging to Lexa and he is suddenly sickeningly sweet.

“Alexandria, you know I always wanted what was best for you. I cared for you after your parents died, guided you as any good guardian would.”

“You were not a guardian to me,” Lexa tells him, bluntly, swallowing heavily. “You were nothing more than a jailor.”

“Alexandria,” Titus entreats, pitifully, “I only tried to do what was right for you-“

“You bullied and blackmailed me,” Lexa does not raise her voice, but her tone is so icy that Clarke shivers, “and made my life miserable and now I want you to leave and never show your face on this estate ever again.”

“Alexandria!”

“I can fetch some footmen to have you escorted out, if you wish.” Lexa snaps and Titus quivers under her ferocious gaze and turns tail to scamper from the room. Lexa immediately softens, the hard set of her shoulders slackening. “Anya,” she says her cousin’s name like a prayer, but Anya holds up her hands and backs a step away.

“Don’t thank me, I wanted Titus out of our lives as well. I only did what was right.”

“Still,” Lexa offers her a smile, “I owe you a lot. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, little cousin.” Anya’s eyes flicker to Clarke and harden again slightly. “I’m not sure what is going on here, but maid or countess, I promise that if you hurt Lexa you will regret it.”

“I won’t hurt her,” Clarke vows, quietly and Anya eyes her for another moment before nodding, satisfied and disappearing out of the library door.

They are alone again suddenly, cast into the dim light of the gas lamp and Lexa looks back down at her, fidgeting nervously.

“So,” she fills the empty silence, “what now?”

“I must… go back to my family,” Clarke admits at last, dread weighing heavily on her shoulders, “I have missed them.”

“Of course,” Lexa agrees, quickly, giving her a small, sad smile, “I completely understand.”

“I will tell people the truth of my time here,” Clarke adds, thoughtfully. “I am not ashamed of what I had to do to survive and I feel I have learnt things in my time with you.”

“I’m glad,” Lexa’s smile widens a little and she reaches out, taking Clarke’s hand in hers. “I have learnt a lot with you Clarke.”

“After that…” Clarke runs the pad of her thumb over Lexa’s knuckles. “Many ladies are great friends… best friends even. We could take a trip together, visit Europe or America.”

Lexa’s eyes light up, her smile brightening beautifully, “I would like that.”

Clarke’s returning smile is soft and tender and when she speaks, her voice is heavy with emotion. “I’m not ready to let this go yet.”

“Neither am I.” Lexa breathes and when their lips meet they are soft and swift, but deeply heart wrenching.

“I should go,” Clarke says at last, her forehead pressed against Lexa’s, lips still brushing. “Wells will wonder where I am.”

“I have guests to attend to,” Lexa agrees, half heartedly and Clarke lets out a small sigh, pulling herself away from the girl.

“Appoint Octavia as your new maid,” she tells her at last, “she’s a good worker and she’s trustworthy.”

“I will,” Lexa promises and Clarke tries to ignore the tears in her eyes when she stretches forwards to kiss her softly on the cheek.

“Goodbye for now, my love.” She murmurs against soft skin and Lexa lets her hands slip out of her grasp when Clarke pulls reluctantly away, turning her back and stepping out into the waiting crowds, her eyes sparkling and her heart held between two gentle hands in the library.

\---

The return to her previous life is strangely easy for Clarke. She returns to her home with her head held high and her parents are waiting on the doorstep of the manor house, beaming. She falls into their arms, clasps them close and allows them to pepper her with kisses and questions in equal amounts.

She grows used to seeing visitors at the house every day, curious folk eager to reacquaint themselves and fall back into the Griffin’s good graces. She has a new respect for the maids who serve her dinner and help to dress her in the morning, often dismissing them the moment her corsets are tied and slipping into the rest of her clothing alone. The heavy, restricting mixture of taffeta, silk and velvet in bright colours is rather difficult to adapt to and Clarke sometimes hesitates walking past a mirror, doing a double take at the sight of herself.

The first few weeks of her homecoming are filled with the excitement of friends and her reunion with her family, but as the days slide onwards Clarke feels herself sinking into a soft, simple sadness. Her heart aches in her chest and she struggles to smile brightly enough to disguise it.

A month after her miraculous return, she sits in the parlour with her mother and father. Her mother is reading a medicine journal, her father flicking through the morning’s newspaper in case he missed anything on his earlier inspection. The night is drawing in outside and most of the help are engaged in cleaning up the dinner remnants upstairs. Clarke flicks through a few pages in her book, but nothing stays in her head and she lets it shut with a soft sigh, sliding off her shoes and curling her feet beneath herself.

Her mother glances up from her journal and her father peers at her from over his paper. They exchange a worried look and her mother clears her throat quietly, placing her journal to one side.

“Is everything alright dear?” Clarke’s eyes startle up from where they had been fixed to the crackling fire and she gives them a small smile.

“Of course, quite alright.”

“I see,” her mother casts another glance at her father and he takes the hint, lowering his paper to his lap.

“Do you have anything exciting planned for the next few weeks darling? With your friends?”

“Not a lot,” she runs the lacy edge of her dress through her fingers, “Nancy Cartwright wants to throw a party for my return but I don’t think I shall let her.”

“Why not?” Her mother enthuses, smiling, “That could be lovely and Nancy is a nice girl.”

“Nancy Cartwright is an insufferable snob,” Clarke corrects her, raising an eyebrow, “besides, we already hosted a party here. Nothing more needs to be done.”

“I see,” her mother frowns, looking helplessly at her father, who can only offer a despairing shrug. “Then, any other plans?”

“I may go for a walk tomorrow, depending on the weather.” Clarke runs her fingers over the front of her book mindlessly.

“Oh,” her mother brightens, “with Wells? Or maybe the nice Merryweather boys?”

“No, on my own.”

Her mother deflates, watching her despairingly as she opens her book again. They are quiet for a moment, the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and the fire crackling. A knock on the door breaks the silence and her mother calls in a maid with a letter on a silver tray.

“Letter for Lady Clarke, m’lady.”

Clarke’s eyes shoot up and she turns to gesture the girl closer over the back of the settee, taking the letter from her tray. The maid retreats as she tears into it and her mother watches anxiously.

“Whoever could be sending notes at this time of day?”

Carefully, Clarke unfolds the sheath of paper and her heart soars at the familiar sight of sharp, elegant script. Her eyes flicker through the words, lips parting in surprise and her mother’s gaze becomes more anxious until she finally asks.

“What is it Clarke?”

“It’s from Lady Woods.”

Her mother blinks, brows furrowing, “the woman you worked for?”

“Yes mama,” Clarke can barely hide her smile, “she says that she regrets to have to send this letter but they are awfully understaffed trying to formally open the house for summer and I have two weeks’ worth of work to fulfil in my contract.”

“You cannot mean…” her father trails off, wide eyed and Clarke nods as sombrely as she can manage.

“I am to return to fulfil my contract.”

“But Clarke!” Her mother is aghast, outraged, “You cannot possibly go back, it was understandable before but _now_ … with our positions restored, our _safety_ restored!”

“I’m sorry mama, I know it isn’t a usual situation,” Clarke stands, brushing down her skirt briskly. “But I have to honour my contract with them.”

“Clarke, you cannot intend to-“

“I will leave tomorrow,” she breezes past them both, “if you’ll excuse me, I have to pack.”

Lady Griffin watches her go in horror, turning to place her accusing glare on her husband the moment their daughter is out of the room.

“You couldn’t have said _anything_ to try to stop her?”

Lord Griffin shakes his head thoughtfully, running his fingers over the bristle of his moustache. “Did you see her smile, my dear?” He asks, quietly and Lady Griffin hesitates, glancing back at where their daughter has just disappeared. “She has not smiled like that since she returned home,” he continues, nodding to himself, “yes, I think it is a very good idea to allow her to go. Hopefully she finds whatever she is looking for in Towerhill Hall.”

\---

“So you can see that there’s a lot that needs doing, m’lady?” Thomas gives her an anxious glance across the library table and Lexa nods thoughtfully, eyes sliding from one map to another.

“Yes, so I see.” She looks up and gives him a small, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry Thomas, I hired you as my land agent because you know these hills. I trust your judgement.”

Thomas flushes with pleasure at her words. “It will be a fair investment, m’lady.”

“I’m happy to invest in the land, it’s what I’m here for.” Lexa begins to help him roll up the maps and charts on the table. “Bring me an estimate of the costs of the dam and we can begin work.”

“Thank you m’lady, I will.” Thomas tucks the papers under his arm, smiling widely. “It’ll do so much good for the villages come spring flooding season.” Lexa only smiles again, nodding and sorting her own files into a tidy pile to be sorted later. Thomas hesitates, his papers collected.

“If there is nothing else, you should probably be getting home,” Lexa folds her hands in front of herself. “The evening is starting to draw in, I wouldn’t want you to be hurt travelling home in the dark.”

“No, of course m’lady,” still he hesitates and she waits while he gathers the courage to say what is playing on his mind. “I wanted to compliment you on your other plans m’lady, the schools you are planning?”

“Oh,” she feels heat rise to her cheeks, “yes well, they only seem sensible and most children can’t travel the distance to the school in Highpark, it’s almost forty miles from some of the local villages.”

“Well, my youngest, my little Daisy,” a smile tilts at his lips when he speaks of her, “she is most excited to be going to school with her two brothers.”

Lexa can’t help the beam that splits her face, “It is my hope that all of the local children will have the same opportunities.”

“You’re doing a great lot of good, m’lady.” Thomas promises, stepping towards the door just as a knock comes from the other side. “I’ll be taking my leave of you now.”

“Thank you Thomas, for all of your help.” She shakes his hand earnestly and he sees himself out of the door as she turns back to the papers on the library table. “Just put the tea tray on the desk would you Octavia? I have so much to do I can’t even _think_ of eating just yet.”

“You really ought to, you’re looking as thin as a rake.”

The voice makes her breath catch in her throat, eyes widening and she spins around on shaking knees, her hands caught against the table to hold her up. Clarke stands in the doorway, illuminated by the candles from the great hall like some sort of ethereal being, hair pulled into a low bun, wearing a simple, light coloured dress. In her hands is a tray with two meals set upon it and she eases it onto the desk, smiling nervously at Lexa.

“They wouldn’t let me put on my old uniform,” she explains, after a second of silence. “And Mrs Bustle insisted on putting me in a guest room, rather than the servant’s halls-”

“You came.” Lexa is staring at her, as if Clarke will disappear if she dares to take her eyes off her.

“Of course,” Clarke quirks her lips into a slight smile. “You summoned me, my lady. Rightfully so.”

“I didn’t think… it was just a prayer in the wind… I was about to write and apologise for my impertinence.”

She is rambling, desperately filling the air between them and Clarke shakes her head, moving closer to her in a few quick steps and sliding a hand around her waist.

“Lexa,” Clarke squeezes at her hip and her eyes are light, dancing with joy and an incredible softness. “Be quiet and kiss me.”

There is nothing Lexa can do but obey.

_Fin._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a lot of trouble trying to give these two a happy ending but at the end of the day... I figured that this fic has tried to stay as realistic as possible, and a happy ending would be hard to find in the 19th century. I like to imagine that they were close companions for life and go to villas in France where they can swan around in airy linens and have sex in front of thrown open french doors, on a bed covered in silks.  
> Also, I might write a few little snippets from Lexa's point of view, or any snippets from after the fic, so keep an eye on my tumblr (@onemilliongoldstars)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and please let me know your thoughts either below or over on tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it please let me know either below or over on my tumblr (@onemilliongoldstars). Have a great day/night!


End file.
